


Ordinary

by Jukebox_Mill



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: F/M, Hylian Lore, Original Character(s), Resistance, Sheikah, gerudo, royal family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-03-18 07:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 73,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3561101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jukebox_Mill/pseuds/Jukebox_Mill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a long time since the village of Ordon has had to take up arms and defend its own from monsters. But the Hero's peace is cracking at the seams, and now a young man must brave the odds and make for Castle Town at any cost. What he finds there will spell the end for Hyrule and all her ancient mysteries. An extraordinary story of courage, betrayal, old scores, and the binding power of bloodlines. [FINAL CHAPTER, EPILOGUE AND AUTHOR'S NOTES. This work is complete! Thanks to everyone who has been supportive of it]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Big Catch

**_Ordinary_ **

**by Jukebox Mill  
**

 

_Dedicated to all who love Hyrule, and wish only to know her secrets.  
_

 

      Autumn came suddenly, and with music — birdsong in the morning, wood chimes in the evening, and the bellow of an open fire deep into the night. Everywhere was melody, and everyone was dancing. Nature sang, even as it withered and drowsed and the frost crept closer day by day, and for a time the whole world was aglow in the gold and chestnut hue of happy memories. These were the days of plenty in the land of Hyrule, when wagons on the road teemed with vegetables and trout were fat and idle in the river.

      At dusk, in the moments before the great orange harvest moon cast its light over the farthest corners of the world, a strange sadness would coil through the valleys and across the high places like a low note from a child's flute. But it did not linger like it used to, those many years ago. The nights were bright now, and peaceful. 

      There were pumpkins everywhere in the village of Ordon — underfoot, typically — dropped or misplaced or else still growing by the way, big as boulders. Marksmen loved them. It was not uncommon to see them mounted on sticks or dangling from high branches, riddled with arrows or burst in half by a slingshot, to the point that the clearing at the mouth of the village had become a sort of shooting gallery where young people gathered to brag and laugh and dare all the day long. Loam, though a dab hand with a bow when he needed to be, considered this a terrible waste of good food. A student of the forest, he knew from the signs that the coming winter would be as difficult as the harvest season had been easy. With carelessness, the consequences.

      Loam was remarkable, in that people made remarks about him often. He was young and strong and capable, but thoughtful and quiet also, which was unusual in those parts. Some villagers thought him timid or closed-off, but that wasn’t really true. Others more generously agreed he simply lacked the preening cocksureness of the other young men of Ordon, which was absolutely true. The likes of Bartl and Ado swaggered and catcalled their way through a day’s work at the ranch with their friends and drank and smoked like brigands in the night, while Loam gardened or went fishing or hawking on his own in the daytime, and spent his evenings tending to his mother or reading books by candlelight.

      He had fair, clean skin, and was taller than most, with a thatch of auburn hair that framed his serious face attractively, but served a lesser purpose in the way it concealed his seashell-shaped ears — his father had been Hylian, they told him, and while that was nothing to be ashamed of, it was nothing to crow about either. His most distinguishing feature, however, were the wire-frame glasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. Loam was the only young person in the village who needed them, and the obvious fact that they made him look respectable and wise was not enough to deter the bullies growing up.

      Not that they bothered him much. Nothing bothered Loam, not really — wasted pumpkins aside.

      One morning, when the season had peaked and even the noonday sun cast long shadows over the land, he stepped into a canoe moored to the pier behind the grocer’s mart and set about threading sinkers and lures to fishing poles for Colin, the village protector. Colin had laid down a series of tasks for each of the young men as a means of raising them up to the level of what he called ‘heroes’ — skilled workers, defenders, craftsmen, and eventually husbands, (‘the noblest duty of all,’ to hear him tell it). Ordon was their inheritance, and he would train them to steward it well. Loam needed no instruction when it came to fishing, but he set about his work without complaint, like always, lost in thought even as his deft hands performed the task immaculately.

      ‘Loam?’ came a tremulous voice from above him.

      He looked up and shielded his eyes against the sun’s first rays. It was Colin’s grandson, Wren, standing at the pier’s end and clutching one of its wooden posts tightly in one hand. Wren was terrified of water (and fire, and dogs, and knives, and the dark), and didn’t trust himself to stand too close to it.

      ‘Hi, Wren,’ said Loam, smiling warmly at him. ‘You’re up early today.’

      ‘I knew you’d be out here,’ he explained. ‘Wanted to see if you needed any he-help.’

      The truth was etched all over his small, doughy face: he wanted no such thing. His father must have put him up to it, a lesson in manliness before its time. Loam’s expression stayed the same, easy and kind and brimming with encouragement.

      ‘Help me fish?’ he said lightly. ‘I’d like that very much. Here —’ (he passed a rod over the water and into Wren’s reluctant free hand) ‘— hold onto this and climb in. You can sit between my knees.’

      It was a credit to the boy that he was able to move at all. He looked pale and wan, and clung to Loam like a barnacle as soon as he was within arm’s reach. Loam took him gently and placed him firmly at the bow of the tiny boat, careful to rock it as little as possible.

      ‘You okay?’ he whispered to the shaking figure in his lap.

      A muffled sniff and a nod of Wren’s small blonde head was his answer.

      ‘All right, then. Let’s push off.’

      He pressed the blade of his oar to the pier and they set out across the pond in silence, cutting a channel through the low, silvery morning mist. The rock walls that framed the village came together at a bottleneck at the far end of the water, and Loam steered them through it expertly, whistling the first few notes of a lullaby all the while. The narrow canyon reopened into a wide circle, the farthermost part of the pond, where a pillar of mossy stone stood like a natural shrine in the very middle. Here, where it was deepest, the canoe drifted to a standstill; though Wren, who had shut his eyes tightly from the moment he sat down, was not aware of this.

      ‘Would you like to cast?’ Loam asked him.

      ‘I can’t,’ mumbled the boy.

      ‘Sure you can. I see you fishing for greengills in Faron Spring all the time.’

      ‘This is deeper than Faron Spring.’

      ‘Well then, you’ll have to cast wider. Take the rod, now.’

      He placed it into Wren’s hands and closed his own hands over them. The trembling had become almost violent, but Loam made no comment.

      ‘The lure is coated with bee larva, see?’ he whispered, jiggling it meaningfully. ‘That’s the secret. Fish go mad for it, just you watch. Now. When you cast, swish it out to the starboard side and then pitch it over your shoulder, hard as you can. Got all that?’

      ‘Um, I think,’ said Wren. He had opened his eyes just a fraction.

      ‘Okay. One — two — _three_!’

      In one fluid motion, Loam directed the boy’s hands in precisely the way he had described, and the lure sailed twenty feet away from them, the line whizzing eagerly in its wake before it hit the water with a distant and satisfying plop.

      ‘Nice one!’ he chuckled.

      A small squawk of delight escaped Wren’s lips, very much in spite of himself. He quickly came to his senses, and shrank back into Loam’s loose embrace. They sat there in silence for several minutes, waiting for a bite, watching the golden band of morning sun inch down the rock face toward the water’s surface.

      ‘How are things at home?’ asked Loam.

      ‘’Kay,’ the boy shrugged. ‘Bartl came over for supper last night. I think he likes Raya.’

      ‘What makes you say that?’

      ‘’Cuz he tried to kiss her when everyone went to bed.’ He gave Loam an abashed look over his shoulder. ‘Um, I was watching from the window upstairs.’

      Loam just winked at him. ‘And how did she feel about that?’ he wondered delicately.

      ‘Not so good, I don’t think,’ said Wren. A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘She, um. She said he had onion breath, and that his beard made him look like a, like a goat. Um.’

      He studied Loam’s face for a moment, to discern whether this was something they could share a laugh over. It was. Their quiet giggling was a small sound in the hushed and chilly morning, but it seemed to hasten the sun’s passage somehow, warming them.

      ‘Poor Bartl,’ Loam sighed good-naturedly.

      Wren looked puzzled and annoyed all of a sudden. ‘Why are you so nice to him? He’s so mean to you.’

      ‘Do you think he’d be nicer if I were mean as well?’

      ‘I — guess not.’ His expression softened, and he reflected for a moment, saying nothing else on the matter. ‘You’ve got sword training with Grandpa this afternoon,’ he added at length.

      ‘Yes, I do.’

      ‘You’ll definitely win the Ordon Sword this month. You’re way better than those other guys.’

      ‘Well, thank you, Wren. It’s all just a matter of practice.’

      ‘What will you do with it?’ the boy wondered.

      ‘With the sword? I don’t know. I’ll probably practice with it out in the woods like I do with my regular sword, until it’s time to give it — whoa!’

      The line became suddenly taut and the rod arched over in their shared grasp. Wren let out a cry, not knowing what to do, remembering in a rush where he was and what they were there for.

      ‘Take the reel,’ Loam instructed him. ‘Wind hard, now, good and hard.’

      He kept the canoe steady, grinning as the boy wrestled with their catch, closing the gap between themselves and the thrashing, splashing thing ahead of them.

      ‘Almost there!’

      Wren puffed out his cheeks comically, intent on his mission. The fact that water was sloshing and leaping on either side of him seemed to be of no importance at all anymore. All that mattered was this test of strength, boy against fish, the constant cranking of the reel in his little fist no matter how fierce the resistance, until at last it hung there, right in front of his eyes: an actual Ordon catfish, brown and slimy and writhing.

      ‘You’ve done it!’ cheered Loam. ‘Wren, you’ve done it! Must be eight pounds at least, look at it!’

      He reached over gingerly to unhook its mouth, letting it drop into the cloth bag he had brought along. A ringing silence filled their ears as the ripples dwindled back down to stillness, in which Wren slowly turned around to look Loam full in the face. His own face was transfigured; he looked euphoric, aglow in the bright sunshine, his watery blue eyes crowded in behind grinning red cheeks.

      ‘I did it,’ he whispered.

      Loam tousled the boy’s hair, gazing fondly down at him over his glasses. ‘You did. You were amazing,’ he said sincerely. ‘I mean it. Your Dad’ll be so proud. I sure am.’

      It happened in an instant, then. Without saying a word, Wren scrambled to his feet and threw his arms around Loam’s neck, taking him completely by surprise.

      ‘Wren — what’re you — _watch out!_ ’

      But it was too late. The boat bucked twice in either direction before capsizing completely, and everything after that was ice cold and suffocating.


	2. Love and Grudges

      News travelled fast in Ordon.

      Young Wren had fallen into the pond, the villagers said, (‘ _where it was deepest!_ ’), and had emerged shivering head-to-toe, but only from the cold. Far from seeming frightened or disturbed, he was rather beside himself with excitement, and raved endlessly through chattering teeth about what an adventure it had been to hold fast to Loam’s shoulders in the churning water as he righted the canoe and paddled them back to safety at once.

      The cause for this calamity? Nothing less than the catching of his very first fish — which had, most unfortunately, made its escape in the confusion. If only they could have seen it, though! It was at least twenty pounds, maybe even twenty-five…

      Colin was waiting for them at the pier along with Wren’s parents, who gathered him out of Loam’s hands and raced home before he could catch a chill. Loam took Colin’s outstretched hand in his own with gratitude, and lay down, sopping and panting, in the warm grass.

      ‘You okay?’ asked the old man.

      ‘Yeah, fine.’ Loam waved a limp, dismissive hand at him. ‘He caught a fish. Got overexcited.’

      He felt the ground shift slightly as Colin sat down beside him, chuckling in his gravelly way.

      ‘You’re a wonder, Loam,’ he marvelled. ‘You’ve done an important thing for that grandson of mine today.’

      ‘It’s just fishing.’

      Colin became faraway in thought for a moment, as he so often did. ‘Nothing is just ever just anything,’ he murmured, as much to himself as to Loam. ‘Not when you’re a hero.’

      _There he goes again,_ thought Loam, _him and his heroes._ ‘I’m no hero, Colin,’ he insisted.

      Colin grinned at him lopsidedly. ‘That’s what they all say. But Wren won’t hear a bar of it. That boy would follow you to the Void and back, let me tell you.’

      Loam sat up and regarded him. Colin had been a cowardly boy himself, he always reminded them, timid and retiring, preferring to weave baskets and pick strawberries for his mother over raiding the woods and roughhousing with friends. He would talk himself down, shy away from danger, and felt like a disappointment to everyone who cared about him.

      ‘ _Something changed all that,_ ’ he would go on to say in grave tones, ‘ _something major._ ’

      They never did discover what — the most Colin would reveal was the presence of a hero in his life, an example, a role model, had caused him to put away his fears and take on the mantle of true manhood. Most of the children in the village believed it had been his father. For some reason, Loam had always suspected otherwise.

      He had stringy grey hair flecked with the last of the blonde that had once gleamed in the sun like a silk sheet, and his face was deeply lined and lumpy with age. His doleful blue eyes had dulled over time, but were full of kindness, and hinted at the boy he had been all those years ago. Loam looked up to Colin in quite the same way Wren looked up to Loam. As the only young man in the village without a father, it was a natural fit, though there was never any question of favouritism on Colin’s part, which was exactly how Loam liked it.

      ‘I’d better dry out,’ he said at length. ‘See you at practice?’

      ‘Of course, m’boy.’ said Colin, clapping him on the shoulder wetly. ‘Might sit here a little longer m’self. Won’t be seeing much of the sun in a couple weeks.’

      ‘That’s true,’ Loam agreed.

      He didn’t say anything else, merely rose to a stand and left the old man to his memories.

 

* * *

 

      It was on the way to practice that Loam crossed paths with Raya, Wren’s older sister. She was raking leaves in the yard while her mother tended to the vegetable patch on her hands and knees, and spotted him approaching from afar.

      ‘Hi, Loam!’ she called.

      He smiled at her and came near, giving her mother a small wave on the approach.

      ‘Hi, Raya. Having a good day?’

      ‘Okay, I guess,’ she shrugged, looking away and smiling. Raya often looked away and smiled when Loam was around. ‘My brother hasn’t stopped telling people about that whole fish thing this morning. Did it really weigh twenty pounds?’

      ‘It was probably closer to nineteen,’ he replied with a ghost of a wink.

      She giggled, and looked perfectly lovely. A year younger than Loam, Raya was her father’s pride and joy, with her sandy hair that fell in ringlets over sapphire blue eyes, her willowy figure and her strawberries-and-cream complexion. She was very popular with boys, and Loam liked her a great deal, though he was yet to make any plans to that end.

      ‘Off to sword practice, huh?’

      ‘That’s right. Would you like to come watch?’

      ‘Sure!’ she exclaimed, clearly delighted.

      She set her rake down, resting it against a tree, and made to leave without asking her mother’s permission.

      ‘Where are you going, Raya?’ came the expected call before they had even cleared the picket fence.

      ‘I’m going with Loam to Grandpa’s training!’ Raya called back over her shoulder, rolling her eyes in an affected way at Loam, who smiled.

      ‘Oh,’ said her mother. ‘With Loam. Well. Carry on, then.’

      She returned to her gardening with a small, strange grin.

      Loam and Raya made idle conversation on their short journey to the Ranch, walking side-by-side across the babbling brook that fed the pond and further up the dirt trail that snaked its way between homes and gardens, dead leaves rustling noisily with every footfall.

      ‘I found four Rupees while I was raking the yard,’ she informed him. ‘See?’

      She held out a small handful of glittering green gemstones. Loam smiled approvingly.

      ‘Nice. Amazing how many of those things you can find just in the long grass, isn’t it? Who even leaves them there?’

      ‘My Dad, probably,’ Raya replied. ‘There’s a hole in his trouser pocket. I’d mend it, but…well, y’know…’

      She slipped the Rupees back into her own pocket meaningfully, a sly smile spreading over her pretty face. They shared a quiet laugh, and anyone observing might have seen the space between them narrow just a little, and quite unconsciously.

      As it happened, someone was observing. Ilia, the village spinster and the oldest person in Ordon, watched them from the deep shade of Colin’s porch with her green eyes, which were piercing and intelligent even as the ravages of age had taken their toll on the rest of her face. She did not smile to see the first buds of young love begin to bloom in the street. Rather, her pinched features became even harder and more solemn than they almost always were, and her thoughts were of the past, and of loss, and of never knowing.

      ‘Ilia was watching us just before,’ Raya remarked under her breath as they passed through the high gate and up the slope to where the fields were.

      ‘Mm,’ said Loam mildly. ‘I see a lot more of her since she moved out of the treehouse.’

      The subject of the treehouse at the edge of the forest was a popular one in Ordon. Ilia had lived there for nearly fifty years, but was forced to move in with Colin and his wife when her frail body was no longer up to climbing ladders. She was yet to bequeath it to anyone, and many a villager worked tirelessly to stay on her good side ahead of the release of her legal will.

      ‘She’s kind of weird, don’t you think?’ Raya offered uncomfortably. ‘Like, a real wet blanket.’

      Loam stayed silent. He knew the gossip, but made a point of not participating.

      ‘She’s had a hard life,’ was all he said. ‘Hard and lonely.’

      The shallow canyon opened up into the wide, brown-and-gold expanse of Ordon Ranch. The foothills beyond the open plain looked smoky and indistinct in the mid-afternoon sunshine, and the smell on the air — of earth and straw and animal — was pungent, but wonderful. In the middle of the paddock was Colin, lolling against what looked like a totem pole with a dozen arms outstretched in all directions, scuffed and chipped from years of being beaten up by boys with wooden swords. Nearby, four much younger men chewed hayseed and made dirty jokes in the grass, waiting for Loam to arrive. Among them was Bartl, who straightened up like a hound having caught a scent the moment he spotted Raya with him. The others — Ado, Nael and Thatch — began to mutter.

      ‘Ah, Loam!’ Colin announced. ‘Good, good, we were starting to worry. And Raya! Come to see my heroes at work, eh?’

      ‘Oh, yes, grandfather,’ she retorted airily, and mimed swooning to his and Loam’s amusement.

      ‘Well, pull up a seat, my girl, pull up a seat. Now, gentlemen…’

      The five young men gathered around him in a broken semicircle, Bartl casting beady sidelong glances all the while.

      ‘Ready for a pounding, Loamly?’ he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

      Loam’s smile was placid and benign. ‘As you say, Bartl,’ he replied, soft as ever.

      Colin distributed the battered wooden katanas he had been training with since before Loam’s mother was a girl. He set them to drills, partnering himself to Ado and making Loam and Nael a pair. For a while the only sound under the deep blue sky was the _clack-clack-clack_ of wood striking wood, which unsettled the goats in the barn across the way. Occasionally, Nael would break routine and strike Loam on the shoulder, and at one point Bartl succeeded in convincing his partner, Thatch, to stretch out a leg and and trip him into falling. In both instances, Loam was unflappable, proceeding forth as before without a word of complaint.

      ‘Stop there,’ instructed Colin after an hour.

      Sweat glistened on all their brows, but was quickly chilled by a gentle northern breeze to herald the coming of evening.

      ‘Good hustle, men,’ he said bracingly, towelling off his neck. ‘Nael, your footwork has come a long way, that’s excellent. Thatch, I don’t know _what_ you thought you were doing with your foot. Bartl, great defensive manoeuvres — I’m putting you in the running for the Ordon Sword this month.’

      ‘Yesss!’ Bartl hollered over the lazy, scattered applause that accompanied this honour.

      He swaggered over to Colin, puffed up with pride and casting obvious looks over at Raya.

      ‘Loam, you get out here, too,’ added Colin.

      Bartl’s smug expression froze. The other boys did not applaud, though their interest became sharper than any sword, and a palpable sense of anticipation hung as heavy in the air as the lilac wafting in from the forest. Raya leaned forward to hug her knees beneath her chin.

      Loam stood opposite Bartl, looking neither pleased nor displeased, as Colin offered them each a wooden helmet. Bartl took his with a brisk, sullen swipe and fastened it over his feathery black hair, but Loam declined, gesturing at his glasses ruefully, which caused the other boys to snicker. This seemed to hearten Bartl slightly, and his lip curled into a familiar sneer once more.

      ‘You know the rules, my Knights of Ordona,’ declared Colin, only half-jokingly. ‘Three direct hits, and the Sword is yours. Begin!’

      Bartl fell at once into a fighter’s stance — legs apart, shoulders hunched, turning the sword in impressive circles with one hand — but Loam remained as he was, standing tall with the hilt in both hands and his shoulders squared. He regarded Bartl dispassionately, taking in the too-small eyes, the overly wide mouth, and of course, the wispy tuft of beard that recalled a goat, as Wren had described. He was half a head shorter than Loam, and was less than half as pleasant.

      In a flash, the action began. Bartl lunged and the blades met with a ringing crack, but what thrilled the crowd did not thrill Loam. To him, swordplay was like math: the right steps in the right order to produce the right result. Step, step, lunge, parry, block, step, pivot, block, _lunge_ —

      ‘A hit!’ cried Colin, as Bartl clutched his upper arm, snarling. ‘One to Loam.’

      Raya clapped her hands. The second round began without preamble, and it was all Loam could do to keep himself from yawning. Bartl’s highly emotional attacks were sloppy, costing him strength and position, and his feints were like children’s pantomime in their obviousness. A hollow _conk_ sound attended the sudden blow to the crown of his helmet, and for a moment he stood dazed and blinking.

      ‘Two to Loam!’ Colin trumpeted. His blue eyes were twinkling.

      Bartl’s swarthy face burned an ugly red, and Loam could see a nerve jumping in his jaw. He sighed through his nose, and gave his opponent an entreating look.

      ‘Listen, Bartl,’ he said quietly. ‘If you want the Sword, you can have it. We don’t have to play to three.’

      This was met with a humourless bark of laughter.

      ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ seethed Bartl. ‘I know your game, Loamer. You just don’t wanna get humiliated in front of Raya.’

      ‘Come on now, boys,’ Colin prodded. ‘Show us what we came to see!’

      Bartl charged for the third time — literally charged, hurtling headlong at Loam in an effort to ram him, yelling and cursing in a guttural way, so that for a second Loam was actually nonplussed. However, at the last moment, he performed a graceful sidestep, causing Bartl to overbalance and stumble with a cry. As a final insult, Loam spanked him smartly on the hindquarters with the flat of his blade as he went down, crashing face-first into the dirt.

      Raucous laughter rent the air. The other young men, Raya...even Colin had to cover his mouth. Loam, meanwhile, felt a leaden sensation of guilt in his chest from the moment he had done it. Even as Colin pressed the Ordon Sword — the only real melee weapon in the village, an heirloom and a treasure — into his hand, he felt no satisfaction at seeing Bartl struggle to his feet and dust himself down furiously.

      The gathering dispersed at Colin’s word, but Loam lingered a moment, drawing near to his foe to offer a conciliatory word, even an apology. He received in reply a gob of spit at his feet and a look of genuine hatred before Bartl turned tail and stalked away on his own.


	3. Two Pumpkins

      It began with the crack of a twig.

      Loam’s eyes opened. They didn’t burst open, and neither did they blink groggily. They simply opened, and for a minute he stared up at the dark sloped ceiling of his bedroom in the loft, his long ears twitching against the noises in the night.

      There were whispers coming from the yard, malicious whispers. He could hear the intent behind them, even if he couldn’t quite make out the words. Hissed instructions, stifled laughs…it could only be Bartl and Ado, come to exact revenge for the afternoon’s indignity. He sighed through his nose. Whatever they had planned would undoubtedly involve manure in some way — manure in his letterbox, manure on the doorstep, manure smeared over the clothes on the washing line. For some reason, Bartl seemed to think that exposure to manure would cause his victims unimaginable shame and suffering. Loam found it tiresome, mostly for the way it upset his mother. Tonight, he decided, he was not going to stand for it.

      Silent as a shadow, he took his glasses from the nightstand and slipped them on, vanishing from under the covers and reappearing at the window a moment later. The waxing moon was at its highest point in the clear night sky, and the world below shone iridescent white-blue in its light, a colourless imitation of noonday in which the shadows were the black of bottled ink.

      They were easy to see, the pair of them, crouching down in the vegetable patch with crude masks over their faces, perhaps thinking they could get away unrecognised in a village with fewer than half a dozen teenaged boys. Loam made a distasteful sound in his throat. They had sawed the top off his mother’s prized pumpkin, scooped out the innards, and were replacing them with, yes — manure.

      He glowered at them for a moment, calculating.

      There was nothing else for it. He crossed the bedroom, past the Ordon Sword, which was wrapped in furs and leathers in repose against the wall, and opened the top drawer of his dresser. Inside, the slingshot he hadn’t touched for several years lay dormant, and a handful of Deku seeds rolled around it, glinting dully. He seized it all and returned to his vantage point, loading the elastic with the biggest of the seeds and pulling it taut, the wooden prongs held fast in the other hand. Loam kept both eyes open when he aimed, even with a bow, and his target now was the sweet spot on the pumpkin being vandalised by his enemies. If hit just so, it would explode and shower them with dung. The very thought of it sent a ripple of satisfaction over the the usually peaceful waters of his deeper nature.

      But in that moment, a fraction of a second before he let go, something gave him pause. His ears twitched once, then twice, the subtle points of them flexing almost imperceptibly underneath his hair. He lowered the slingshot and listened.

      Beyond the conspiratorial muttering of Bartl and Ado, he could hear the stream chuckling in its pleasant way, and, farther along, the muted groans and sloshes of the water wheel by the mill.

      But that was it. There were no other sounds.

      No cricket song, no croaking toads, no owls hooting. Not even the rustle of dead leaves in the wind. It was an otherworldly quiet, the likes of which Loam had never heard. It was not natural, and it was not insignificant. A creeping sense of dread had barely begun to descend down his spine, when the loudest scream he had ever heard split the night like a trumpet blast.

      ‘Raya,’ he whispered automatically.

      It happened in a series of still images, then, like snaps from a pictograph box: the whoosh of his nightshirt as he turned on a pivot, the snatching of the Ordon Sword from its resting place, the flight down the stairs and the bursting through the door, past Bartl and Ado (who stood petrified with helpings of dung and pumpkin guts in either hand), and the hurtling pell-mell down the lane to where the screaming rang out shriller and more terrified than when it started.

      He stopped dead in his tracks and tried to process what he was seeing.

      Raya was being dragged through the dirt by her ankle, the white shift she had worn to bed bunched up in folds over her face, exposing her young body completely to the night air. Her abductor was nothing less than an actual monster, nine feet tall at a reckoning: a dog who walked like a man, clad in chains and mismatched plate mail. Its face was dull and sour-looking, canine teeth protruding out from behind its bottom lip, red eyes glowing like embers in the shadow of its prominent brow. Raya’s shrieking was of no apparent consequence to it, and neither were the windows that lit up in every home, or the doors that flew open, or the wails and curses of the villagers as they looked on in horror and despair. Grunting absently, it lumbered on toward the north pass with its prize in tow.

      Thought and reason fled Loam’s mind. He cast off the sheath from the Ordon Sword and broke into a sprint with a low growl in his throat that crested into a ferocious war cry. In two long strides, he scaled a rocky outcrop by the way and propelled himself into a leap from the peak, brandishing the blade over his shoulder in both hands. One single stroke, and the beast’s massive head was parted from its shoulders, sailing in a gory arc to the opposite side of the path where it landed in a patch of bramble, a gruesome and disfigured parody of a pumpkin. Gouts of hot black blood came spurting out from the stump of its neck, soaking Loam’s bedclothes as he landed heavily on his knees, while the massive body tottered from side-to-side for a moment in time, still grasping Raya in its loose fist. At last, its legs buckled, and the great broad bulk of it collapsed onto its front with an almighty crash.

      Loam tossed his weapon carelessly to one side and fell upon Raya, pulling her tangled nightgown down by the hem to cover her nakedness before the whole village could see. She had become hysterical with panic throughout the ordeal, and lashed out at him with her fingernails, sobbing and flailing in the grass. Loam seized both her wrists and leaned in very close.

      ‘Shh, shh,’ he breathed. ‘Raya. Raya, it’s me. It’s Loam. Raya, it’s okay — look at me.’

      Raya became very rigid, her pretty face a mask of distress as she sucked rapid, shallow breaths in through tightly clenched teeth. When she chanced to open one eye, Loam felt her go limp in his clutches, and it was then that she began to cry.

      ‘It’s over,’ he assured her quietly, and they embraced.

      At once, they were surrounded. Raya’s father, Daro, elbowed Loam out of the way and cradled his daughter fiercely, while her mother stood at a distance with Wren in her arms, their anguished faces glistening with tears. Oil lanterns were held high over the body of the creature on all sides, and the clamour of oaths and prayers and swearing that accompanied the scene was like the buzzing of hornets to Loam, who felt weak and dizzy as the adrenaline began to subside and his thinking began to catch up to his actions.

_‘Moblins!’_ roared Colin, appearing in their midst. He looked drawn and ancient in the pale moonlight. ‘In Ordon! Gods and goddesses, not since…’

      ‘What the heck’s a moblin?’ interrupted Tobas, the village grocer. ‘I know bulblins and I know bokoblins, but I ain’t ever seen anything like this. I mean, look at the _size—_ ’

      ‘What did it want with Raya?’ a fretful woman’s voice demanded from further along, as other women sobbed and hugged their children. ‘You don’t think…?’

      ‘Ask Loam,’ said a quiet voice unexpectedly.

      The talk died down, and all eyes turned to Bartl, who stood a little apart from the crowd, fresh muck still on his hands. He looked calm, if slightly ill, and his eyes glittered strangely in the firelight.

      ‘Loam killed it,’ he continued. ‘Took its head right off. I saw the whole thing. He’ll tell you.’

      The two young men exchanged a serious look, and the face that only a few hours ago had been twisted into a mask of hostility now regarded Loam with an expression of something like awe. Colin made a beeline through the crowd in haste and crouched down to interrogate, his knobbed hand clamped over Loam’s shoulder like a vice.

      ‘Loam?’ he said hoarsely. ‘What happened? Can you speak, son?’

      Slowly, Loam turned his head to look his mentor full in the face. His ears were ringing, the lashings of blood up his arms were a stench in his nostrils, and his sweat-soaked nightshirt clung to his body and chilled him in the freezing air, but when he spoke, he spoke clearly and with composure.

      ‘It was taking Raya,’ he explained. ‘Heading for the woods, it looked like. Must’ve broken through the gate.’

      ‘You killed it?’ whispered Colin avidly. ‘With the Sword?’

      Loam nodded once, unsmiling. He imagined the sensation of the blade hacking through flesh and bone, the brief resistance he felt in the killing swing before it opened up to thin air, and the blood, _the blood,_ come gushing forth in a black fountain. A dull lurch of revulsion registered in the pit of his stomach, but the memory was not entirely unpleasant for all that.

      ‘Good boy,’ said Colin. He raised his voice as he stood tall. ‘Good, brave man!’

      There was applause and even cheering from the villagers. Loam’s mother, Wylla, swept into circle of flickering light and embraced her son’s head to her chest, whispering senseless words into his thick hair that spoke of great fear and even greater pride.

      ‘Yes, well,’ said a deep voice at the head of the assembly. Those gathered turned in deference to Mayor Thom, whose wide frame set the pinstripes on his pyjamas at odd angles. ‘It’s all well and good Loam saving Raya, Colin, but what does this mean for Ordon?’

      He gave the felled body an experimental kick in the ribs with his bare foot.

      ‘There’s not been a monster raid in these parts since before most of us here were even born. If the forest isn’t safe —’

      ‘—We’ll _make_ it safe!’ said Colin firmly, planting a fist in his palm. There was a kind of mania to the way his eyes shone, an overeagerness, as though he had been pining for a night like this for decades. ‘Monsters are like birds, moving up and down the land with the seasons. We know this. If they want to make a home in Ordon, we’ll give ‘em plenty of reason to reconsider. We’ll fortify the gate, organise a night’s watch, send hunting parties —’

      ‘ _Hunting parties?’_ Daro interrupted loudly. There was derision in his voice, even when addressing his own father; his swarthy, stubbly face was livid with fear and anger. ‘And what do you propose we hunt _with?_ That sword of yours is the only meaningful defence this village has. If there are more of these things coming down from Faron, bows and arrows won’t be of any use — unless you intend for us to fight them back with shovels and rakes?’

      An angry murmur of agreement rolled through the crowd. Colin looked stung.

      ‘Daro’s right, Colin,’ said the mayor. ‘If we’re going to see this menace off, we need to be better armed.’

      ‘How’re we gonna manage that?’ wondered Tobas. ‘Ain’t been a smith in these parts for centuries. Nobody here knows how to work a hammer and anvil.’

      ‘No,’ Thom replied, after a moment’s deliberation. ‘But in Castle Town they do.’


	4. Apona

      By daybreak, two important things had been decided.

      The first decision was unanimous: Ordon would petition the Royal Family for aid. Whether in the form of weapons, armour, or flesh-and-blood soldiers, it did not matter; the villagers were simply not up to the task on their own, not against a threat like this. Mayor Thom had sat at his desk in the early hours and penned an official letter by candlelight as the men looked on as witnesses, their grim faces half-concealed in shadow. He had blown gently on the sepia ink having signed at the bottom, and here Loam glimpsed his own name, written in the mayor’s precise Hylian script alongside the words ‘ _brave_ _ambassador_.’

      That was the second, less unanimous, decision: Loam would be the one to journey north bearing the letter.

_‘No!’_ Raya wailed. Wren was at her heels, white-faced and silent. ‘Dad, send somebody else, someone older!’

      Daro looked harassed. ‘It’s not my decision, sweetheart, he volunteered for the job!’

      ‘But he’s never even been to Castle Town!’

      This was not entirely true. Loam had visited Hyrule’s capital on precisely two occasions — once when he was ten, to celebrate the birth of the Princess Zelda, and then a second time the year after that, for the funeral of her father, the King. Both times he had found the city big and fascinating, even if the mood of the place had been vastly different between visits.

      ‘Send somebody else,’ she pleaded, seizing her father’s sleeve.

      He jerked his arm away and turned to tower over her, fed up. ‘Would you rather I go instead? Huh?’ he demanded harshly.

      Raya held her tongue, but looked mutinous. Daro, regretting his tone at once, sighed deeply.

      ‘Look,’ he murmured, taking her slight shoulders in his large, calloused hands. ‘No-one’s debating the danger of this mission. But it _is his_ mission.’ He wiped away a sullen tear that had formed in the corner of her eye. ‘There are dangers, yes,’ he admitted, as much to himself as to her. ‘But Loam’s brave and resourceful — he can handle them. Your grandfather and I will see him through as far as the Field. After that, it’s a day-and-a-half’s ride into town, and the Royal Family will see him safely back, with swords and spears to keep us all safe.’

      He kissed her forehead.

      ‘As Grandpa would say,’ he whispered into her curls, ‘it’s not for us to stand in the way of a hero finding his courage.’

 

* * *

 

 

      Loam left his mother in the sitting room. She was all but unresponsive when he kissed her goodbye, and simply stared into the cold and soot-blackened fireplace with dull eyes that beheld a future full of heartache, if it wasn’t the past. She did not protest in the least bit when he explained to her his mission. Perhaps she had protested when his father left them, all those years ago — thrown dishes, smashed pots, wailed and cursed and swooned like a woman possessed — but she hadn’t the strength for that kind of thing anymore; it had fled her. She looked weary with defeat, and none of his promises could change that.

      By mid-morning, iron grey clouds had gathered over the village, and the restless north wind tugged at his tunic and sent whorls of dry leaves high into the sky. He set off at a jog to the village gate, his wallet stuffed with blue and red Rupees that crunched quietly against his hip with every step. Ilia’s disused treehouse stood like a sentry at the farthermost corner of the village before the exit, set apart from the other homes, as its owner had preferred. To Loam’s surprise, she was waiting for him there, dressed in coarse overalls and a straw hat and grooming a beautiful chestnut mare with an old brush. He slowed to a standstill five feet across the way and watched her, feeling slightly apprehensive.

      ‘Do you like her?’ asked Ilia at length.

      For a moment, he did not know to whom she was referring. She could have meant Raya.

      ‘I had one like this when I was your age,’ she went on. ‘Sleek coat. Strong shoulders. Wise eyes.’

      Loam nodded his understanding. ‘What was her name?’ he asked.

      ‘She had a fighter’s name,’ replied Ilia, narrowing her eyes, though not unpleasantly. ‘And a lover’s name. Her name meant freedom — that was the gift she gave to her rider, you see.’

      She became lost in thought for a moment, and he regarded her. Her voice was not the cracked and sour thing he had expected it to be. It was clear and even as a pool of fresh water, with a gentle cadence that made her sound more refined than anyone he had met in his life.

      ‘It’s bad luck for a horse to share a name with another, even one so fierce and lovely as that,’ she added finally, setting down the brush and leading her steed by the mouth to where Loam was standing. ‘So I’ve called this one Apona. She’ll carry you to the ends of the earth, if you’ll promise to come back.’

      Loam gave her a searching look. He took the reins in one hand, and stroked the animal’s glossy face with the other.

      ‘Thank you,’ he said simply. ‘I will.’

      She gave him a humourless smile then, and started to back away. He wondered if he had answered incorrectly.

      ‘Words are wind,’ she told him, and there was real disdain there now, in the voice he had admired. ‘A hero never truly returns from his quest. The world is too big.’

      After that, there was nothing more to say. Loam lead Apona away from the clearing, pondering in his heart what the old woman had told him. Around the bend and through a quiet glade, he came at last to the gates, where half the village stood awaiting his arrival, men and women and children gathered together to see him off. All around, he saw brave faces masking fretful spirits, and felt a sudden rush of affection for everybody, and a pressing reluctance to be parted from them. Mayor Thom approached him, reaching out his large right hand for a shake.

      ‘Have you got the letter?’ he asked in confidence.

      ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Loam.

      The mayor nodded his satisfaction. ‘Ordon’s counting on you, son. Be safe.’

      Loam slipped his foot into the stirrup of Apona’s saddle and mounted her, proceeding through the knot of admirers to where the wooden gate hung off its hinges in splintered fragments. The moblin had smashed it apart in the night, and for the first time Loam could appreciate how defenceless the people of Ordon truly were. He gazed ahead at the suspension bridge that crossed the gorge to the mouth of Faron Woods, and his resolve was steeled anew.

      Colin and Daro appeared on either side of him, one riding a piebald mare, the other a charcoal stallion. Daro carried a pickaxe and a rancher’s whip, Colin a winnowing fork and an old javelin. It was Loam whom they had decorated with weapons — the Ordon Sword, a bow with two dozen arrows, and a wooden shield emblazoned with the village crest: the striped, ringed horn of the Ordon goat. In him they had placed their trust. On his shoulders their hopes rested.

      He looked around for Raya’s lovely face, but saw only Wren, perched atop his mother’s shoulders and peering up at Loam like he had never truly seen him before that moment.

      ‘’Bye, Wren,’ said Loam, smiling sadly.

      He had expected the boy to plead for him to be safe or whimper at how unfair it was to see his friend depart for the unknown. But the faint-hearted child from the canoe on the pond was long gone. Instead, he gave Loam a hard look and raised a tiny fist in a defiant gesture.

      ‘You show those monsters, Loam!’ he piped up, and several people chuckled nervously.

      Loam marvelled. Had it really only been a day?

      ‘Is Raya coming?’ he asked Daro, who offered him a rueful grimace in return.

      ‘Don’t reckon she’s up for the spectacle. She ain’t quite as — ah — understanding as my boy about the whole affair. But just you come back safely, and all will be forgiven.’

      Colin gazed down his nose at the four other young men gathered around the horses’ legs. Ado, Nael and Thatch looked discomfited and held bows and arrows in their hands gingerly, as though they might explode, but Bartl wore the same hard, game expression as Wren and stared right back up at his mentor. Loam wondered what had come over him.

      ‘Daro and I will be back before evening,’ said Colin authoritatively. ‘I’m charging you four to protect the village until we return. No-one is to leave their home unless absolutely necessary. Keep your doors locked, and make sure everyone has armed themselves as best they’re able. Am I understood?’

      ‘Yes, sir,’ they said quietly.

      He nodded his satisfaction and turned his sights to the far end of the bridge.

      ‘There’s no telling what else has infested these woods,’ he muttered to Daro and Loam. ‘When we ride, we ride hard — no pussyfooting. We deliver Loam to the south field, and then we high-tail it back home, simple as you like. You heroes ready?’

      Daro spat a hayseed out from the corner of his mouth grimly. ‘Ready. Loam?’

      Loam took a deep, steadying breath through his nostrils. Wordlessly, he drew the Ordon Sword from its sheath and held it high above them all, just as a rumble of thunder passed over the south and icy raindrops began to spatter the faces of the watching crowd.

_‘Hi-ya!’_ he hollered, and brought the flat of the blade down onto Apona’s haunches with a ringing slap.

      She whinnied fiercely and bolted ahead at once, and the pounding of her hooves against the boards of the bridge was louder than the coming storm. It bucked and swayed as the three horses and their riders proceeded forth from their home at speed, just as Raya emerged panting in the midst of the villagers, having changed her mind at the last minute.

      ‘Wait!’ she cried, but she was too late — the bridge creaked and rocked and was still once more.

      They were gone.

  

 

 

 

 


	5. Flight from Faron Woods

 

     Loam’s ears were a mixed blessing. They were finely attuned to the music of the world, and made him an able woodsman and lookout in times of peace. In times of chaos they were a huge liability, overwhelming him in their failure to make sense of one sound over another.

     The flight from Faron Woods was chaos.

     The pounding hooves of horses three abreast, high thunder in its drawn-out and agonised peal across the sky, driving rain against branches and leaves, and the wind that keened with the briskness of their journey enveloped him in a sodden blanket of noise. It was a mad and relentless sound, as useful to him as deafness, and in the dark and blurry forest he felt incredibly vulnerable.

     He, Colin and Daro had been barreling through the woods at a constant gallop for barely a quarter of an hour, but the horses were already agitated and becoming uncooperative, their strong legs unbalanced on the boggy earth. Even Apona was resistant to her rider’s commands.

     ‘ _Whoa!_ ’ bellowed Colin from a little ways behind, and the two others cantered to a halt.

     Daro clapped his mount’s neck reassuringly, as Loam ran a hand through the tresses of his own drenched hair. Colin dismounted and circled his piebald charger, looking deeply put out over something.

     ‘Stones,’ he snapped over the sound of the rain. ‘In her feet. Dammit.’

     ‘Can’t it wait?’ wondered Daro anxiously. His eyes darted up and down the wall of trees on either side of them, tall, twisted and glistening, their bare branches like grasping fingers.

     ‘This’un’s not going anywhere,’ said Colin. As if in agreement, the horse whickered softly and stamped its foreleg.

     Loam circled back around and gestured over his shoulder. ‘Faron Spring’s just a little ways ahead,’ he offered. ‘We’ll be safer there. You can wash the mud off first, make it easier.’

     Colin inclined his head agreeably, as Daro spared Loam a thin and fleeting smile of gratitude overhead.

     ‘Take the rear,’ instructed Colin, and the others came around behind him obediently as he took his horse’s reins in one hand like a leash and began to proceed on foot.

     Faron Spring was usually as clear and still as glass, and in sunlight it shone with a sometimes heavenly brightness. It was not a place for monsters, the stories said, being as it was the dwelling place of the spirit of the woods. Today it was the dull grey of the sky above, and danced constantly to the rhythm of the falling raindrops.

     ‘Good thinking, m’boy,’ said Colin, standing over Loam as the latter knelt down in the shallow water, expertly digging the stones from the horse’s hooves with a flint knife. Daro stood watch a few yards apart from them, his pickaxe gripped tightly in both hands.

     ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Loam distractedly. The rain ran rivulets down his glasses, and fogged them up, to his irritation.

     ‘The field’s another four miles from here,’ mused the elder. ‘One of those miles is pure cavern, a great big hollowed-out network of wooden tunnels. If we don’t meet any beasties in the forest, I’ll bet you Rupees for rhinestones we’ll meet a few in there.’ He paused for a moment, staring ruefully out through the curtain of rain, even as it traced streams down the lines of his face. ‘That said, I’m surprised we’ve been this lucky. I thought for certain —’

     A groan, low and muffled, but everywhere and nowhere all at once. That was what Loam had heard. That was what they all heard. The horses whinnied nervously, churning the water with their stamping, and tossing their manes with every rapid turn of their heads.

     ‘What was that?’ demanded Daro. He shrunk deeper into their midst, rigid with foreboding.

     Loam stood to his full height and drew the Ordon sword from its sheath, stepping further out into the spring and checking his senses one after the other. The sound did not repeat a second time. All was quiet, but for the steady hiss of water over water. Still—

     ‘ _Look out!’_ cried Colin.

     Two trees collapsed into the clearing at opposite ends of the pool, pushed aside by a pair of armoured moblins, monsters of the kind Loam had faced the night before, only bigger, uglier, and far more lively. They roared at their prey, a snarling, guttural sound, like a belch of rage. Daro’s stream of curse words was drowned out by the horses’ cries. Colin seized his weapons from their holsters on the saddle.

     ‘Horses, Loam!’

     But horses were out of the question for Loam, who knew right away that mounting up would cost him too much time.

     ‘You first!’ he shouted back. ‘Keep _that_ one busy!’

     Both of their assailants closed in on them, their elephantine legs sending geysers flying with every footfall, but the one on the right was slowed down by the deeper water near the centre. As father and son clambered into the saddle, Loam left Apona’s side to meet the quicker of the monsters in close-quarters combat. They came at one another, soaked to the bone and ready for the kill.

     At twenty paces, the thing raised its weapon in both hands: a giant club, studded with metal spikes, like its armour. It was going in for a downward swing, and with the brute strength in those muscles, one swing would be enough to drive Loam’s head down into his stomach. At five paces, the beast splashed to a halt, but Loam proceeded at full tilt; though the world was smoky and indistinct behind his rain-slick lenses, he had a sense for what he wanted to do, and how likely he was to escape with his life after the fact.

     It swung.

     Water exploded in a swirling circle from where the club struck, but its target was unscathed, having leapt nimbly to one side at the last instant, then just as nimbly mounted the creature’s arm at the wrist and climbed it like a gangplank. Arriving at the shoulder, Loam took the hilt of his sword in both hands and directed the point at the throat of his foe, a surgical strike that would end their skirmish at first blood, but the moblin relinquished its hold on the club and swatted at him with one massive hand. He received the blow across the chest, knocking the wind right out of him, and for a moment in time the world reeled wildly about him before vanishing behind a prism of swirling bubbles.

     Fully submerged, Loam thrashed and scrambled, too winded to fret about drowning, clinging to his sword, desperate to move out of reach. He was too late. The same hand that struck him plunged below the surface and seized him by the calf, drawing him out of the spring like a turnip from fresh earth and suspending him, upside down and pouring water, at the level of the creature’s beady, bloodshot eyes. It growled its canine growl at him as he swung his sword to no great consequence, before reaching its free hand for his head — whether to twist it off like a bottle cap or simply crush it to a pulp, he never found out.

     A ringing _crack_ split the air, as Daro’s whip opened a foot long gash down the moblin’s flabby face. It flinched and howled, startled, outraged and stinging, and in the confusion Loam was dropped into the water a second time. Sitting up and gasping for air, he watched in astonishment as Daro steered his horse around behind their monstrous enemy, its bloody face clutched in both its hands. Daro lashed it once again with the whip, only instead of splitting the skin as before, the cord wrapped twice around its thick neck and held fast. A gargling sound rasped out from the moblin’s gaping maw, and with fingers like potatoes it scrabbled feebly at its bonds.

 _‘Now, Loam!’_ thundered Daro.

     Loam took his meaning. Arched backward from the pull of the whip, his enemy’s bare, vast belly swung back and forth at eye height, not five paces from where Loam staggered to his feet. Unthinking, he drove his sword into its side until the crossbar was enveloped by folds of hairy skin, then dragged the blade from right to left, opening the monster up so that coils of glistening, blue-grey guts poured out in a slimy torrent, fouling the water. With one shuddering breath, its body slackened, teetered, and finally collapsed with a splash high enough to douse Daro’s horse to the ears.

     ‘ _I’m not done here!’_ came Colin’s urgent cry from across the spring.

     Loam spun around, hot and slick with viscera even as the rain came bucketing down upon him. Standing in the stirrups of his frantic mount, Colin had driven his javelin into the flank of the second moblin and left it there, dangling uselessly beneath its mailed shoulder. With only a winnowing fork to defend himself now, Colin wrestled with the reins to back the horse away from the reach of the huge club that swung ever closer, a deathly pendulum brandished by a demon, but panic had reached fever pitch in the animal’s mind and body, and it would not see reason. It lurched forward at just the wrong moment: the club fell with an audible _whoosh_ and caved the horse’s head in like a paper lantern. The blow catapulted Colin out of the saddle some fifteen yards headlong into the water, and Loam felt his heart turn to ice in his chest.

 _‘Dad!’_ screamed Daro.

     He charged forward on his horse, a swearing knot of fear and rage, as Loam recovered his senses and whistled with two fingers for Apona, who appeared at his side straight away.

     ‘Get back, Daro!’ Loam made to yell as he mounted, but the sound was a wheeze, a feeble whisper that went nowhere.

     The moblin stood its ground at Daro’s approach, holding the blood-drenched club over the broken body of Colin’s horse. It would kill Daro in a single swing, Loam knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. Nearer the bank, Colin was floating face-down and perfectly still in the water, surely as dead as his mount. And it had been Loam’s suggestion to come here in the first place…

     As Apona charged after Daro into the fray, Loam tossed aside the reins and stood tall in the bucking stirrups, drawing his bow and nocking and arrow with the precision of a finely-tuned carriage clock. He pulled the bowstring to his lips, breathed out, and released. The arrow sailed right over the back of Daro’s head and beat him to his target, impaling the monster through its right eye with a dull, wet thud. Its whole body spasmed obscenely, and with barely a whimper it dropped to its knees. Slack-jawed, the last thing the moblin saw with its one good eye was Daro closing in on horseback, directing the point of his pickaxe at its skull.

     It was Loam who reached Colin first, as Daro trudged behind him in his waterlogged clothes, both men having leapt from their horses. Loam flipped Colin onto his back and crouched to cradle his frail old mentor in his arms. Daro was crying. It occurred to Loam that he was crying, too.

     ‘Colin?’ he sobbed. ‘Colin, speak to me. Say something.’

     ‘He’s dead,’ said Daro. His face was screwed up and bright red with anguish. ‘Oh, gods. He’s dead. My father…’

     Loam stroked away the strands of wet hair that were plastered down Colin’s face. The rain was easing off into a drizzling silver mist now, and in the stillness Loam knew the darkest, fiercest dread of his life, touching Colin’s brow, his throat, his open mouth with trembling hands. Colin, who had raised him as a son, guiding him to manhood, testing his strength, loving him and laughing with him, Colin the protector, the wise, the gentle, Colin couldn’t die, musn’t die, don’t die…

     ‘…don’t die, don’t die, please, no, Colin, don’t…don’t…’

     A breath.

     It came out of the old man so quietly that only Loam could discern it. Astonished, he gasped and laughed at the same time, reaching over his shoulder to seize Daro by the front of his tunic.

     ‘He’s alive!’ cried Loam. ‘Daro, he’s breathing—’

     ‘Wh-what?’

     ‘—he’s breathing, he’s alive, he’s just unconscious!’

     Daro dropped to his knees in the water and pressed one ear to Colin’s chest. After a moment, he sobbed massively, and sat up to hold a hand over his mouth, overcome with emotion. He and Loam embraced, before Loam broke away to lift Colin out of the water, cradling him like a sleeping child. He draped Colin facing forward across the saddle of Daro’s horse, and beckoned for Daro to draw near.

     ‘He’s hurt,’ said Loam, clasping Daro’s shoulder in confidence. ‘You have to get him back to the village.’

     Daro started, blinking his tears away.

     ‘I — no, I — Loam! I have to escort you to the south field, we can’t—’

     ‘I’ll be fine on my own,’ Loam insisted. ‘Someone has to tend to Colin, he could —’

     ‘—monsters everywhere, you wouldn’t stand a—’

     ‘Daro, your _father is dying_ , it’s not a question of—’

     But their debate was cut short. Loud crashes, rustlings, and the drawn-out groan of trees being felled drew their eyes to the woods beyond the spring, where the wicked faces of monsters beyond count leered at them on the approach. Not only moblins, half-a-dozen of them, lumbering through the brush, but bokoblins also: squat, sinewy things with topknots and loincloths, their skin the colour and texture of old prunes. They carried spears and laughed their reedy laugh, scurrying around like termites as their bigger brothers pushed their way toward the clearing.

     ‘Get back to the village,’ said Loam. He sounded eerily calm, if a little sick. ‘Get back, and destroy the bridge.’

 _‘What?’_ hissed Daro, white-faced. ‘Are you crazy?’

     ‘Go,’ said Loam. Then, unexpectedly, he delivered a rough shove to Daro’s chest, and sprinted for Apona across the way. _‘Go!_ _Get to the village and cut the bridge! Protect Ordon!’_

     Daro mouthed soundlessly for a moment, before clambering into the saddle, his father secure over his lap. ‘Loam, you’ll never make it!’

     The noise of the coming horde was nearly deafening, but Loam’s voice was clear and strong.

     ‘I’ll make it,’ he promised, the reins held tight in either hand. ‘And I’ll come back with the might of the whole Hylian army on my side. _Ya!’_

     Both men drove their horses at full speed out of Faron Spring, just as the mass of creatures spilled into the water like a toxin. At the passage, Daro steered left in the direction of home, sparing a last, helpless glance at Loam as the other turned right and careened into the darkness of the unknown.

 


	6. Deep Places

     Now the only sound was the beating of hooves, arrhythmic but determined. The rain had ceased, but the darkness lingered, the storm clouds visibly churning as though angry Loam had survived the encounter at the spring. He did not know how late in the day it was, nor could he say for certain if Daro had arrived home safely with Colin. He knew nothing but the twisting wooded road, and the horrors lurking just out of sight. Would it ever end?

     Apona whinnied loudly.

     The path opened up into a broad, grassy clearing. Loam applied pressure to the reins, and Apona slowed to a trot obediently, and with no small amount of gratitude. They observed the scene together. Against a rock wall, a tall cabin sat in shambles, the logs sodden and crawling with evergreens. There was a soot-black crater a few paces out from the deck, the remnants of a campfire from sometime long ago.

     It occurred to Loam that his teeth were chattering. Fire was an appealing idea. Casting it out of mind, he turned to examine the way forward, and felt his heart sink.

     Wooden gates hung in splinters from either hinge. Beyond, the mouth of a great cave yawned monstrously at them, fringed with hanging vines and pitch black from the entrance on. Here, then, was the tunnel Colin had warned of: the final mile of the escape to the south field. Apona seemed to read his thoughts, snorting warily and scuffing her hooves in the grass.

     ‘We have to, girl,’ he murmured, stroking her pale mane. ‘They’re depending on us.’

     He bent over to unhook the oil lantern from around her saddlebags. Fiddling with the tinderbox for a moment, he smiled despite himself to see the wick burst into yellow flame, and peered into the gloom with new resolve. The Ordon Sword hung flat in its sheath by his side. It would be a challenge to hold the lantern, steer the horse and swing the blade to ward off whatever demons infested these caverns, but by gods, he would do what he must.

     ‘Ready?’ he whispered. ‘One…two…’

_‘Hi-yo!’_ cried a strange voice from across the way. ‘Wait, wait, _wait!’_

     Loam made a harsh noise of surprise, becoming unbalanced in the saddle and thrusting a hand at the sword instinctively, missing it by some distance. He cast his eyes all around the grove, and settled them at last upon the man who had burst out from the front door of the cabin, waving both hands.

     He appeared to be a good many years older than Loam — Daro’s age, perhaps — and was very obviously a Hylian, his shaved head accentuating ears that were nearly the shape and length of Loam’s hands. He had prominent cheekbones and a strong chin, shadowed slightly by the beginnings of rust-coloured stubble, and his dark eyes were kind, if fretful. Loam took in his clothing — blue tunic adorned in various places by chain mail and brown leather banding — and guessed him to be military, with a thrill of hope that battled against his sense of caution.

     ‘Hello?’ he said warily. ‘Are you all right?’

     ‘Oh, thank the goddess, one and three,’ panted the man, slowing to a standstill a few feet from Apona’s side. He had a courteous, fussy little accent. ‘I’ve been stranded here for two days, in this hollow. Hiding out in that ramshackle hut, you know, damp as you like.’

     ‘Are you lost?’ wondered Loam.

     ‘I was lost, but now am found!’ tittered the man. ‘Yes, my blasted horse got spooked by a pack of dreadful imps, dashed off somewhere into the woods. I can’t brave these caves on foot, much less cross the Field to Castle Town...’

     Loam suppressed a gasp. ‘You’re going to Castle Town?’

     ‘Just so. I’ve an appointment I must keep. Urgent business, very urgent in _deed_. I don’t suppose…?’

     ‘Of course!’ said Loam, quicker than he had meant to. ‘I mean…yes. That’s where I’m going. There’s room in the saddle, I think.’

     ‘Oh!’ said the man, clearly delighted but sheepish also. ‘Splendid. Er. Only, the thing is, I’ve a wagon, just ‘round the bend, full of all my effects. Would that handsome mount of yours take kindly to being harnessed up for the trip?’

     Loam thought about this. A wagon would slow them down considerably, which was not ideal for the tunnel in particular. But he could not abandon the man, whatever the outcome, and did not wish to waste time negotiating.

     ‘That should be fine,’ he conceded. ‘Lead the way.’

     ‘Jolly good!’ laughed the man. It was clear he could hardly believe his good fortune.

     Behind the cabin, Loam worked at tethering Apona to the wagon. It was small, only two wheels, with a white canvas propped up over a series of bows in the shape of a bell.

     ‘The name’s Cojiro,’ said the man. ‘It’s a, er, modified form of an old Oocca legend. Bit of an odd name, I know, but my late father was mad for all things Oocca, like his father before him. They’re a sky tribe, you see, magical bird folk, a bit like — well. Never mind all that. I never much cared for them, to dear old Dad’s disappointment, ha ha!’

     ‘I’m Loam,’ said Loam. He dusted down his hands, satisfied that the wagon was secure.

     ‘Loam! Charmed. And are you a resident of Castle Town, Loam?’

     ‘No, I’m from Ordon.’

     ‘Ordon!’ exclaimed Cojiro, fascinated. ‘Are you really? But your ears…?’

     ‘My father was Hylian,’ he replied dispassionately, climbing back into the saddle. ‘Or so they tell me. Ready to go?’

     ‘Ah. Er. As ready as I’ll ever be, yes,’ replied Cojiro. He looked slightly pensive as he sat himself at the mouth of his wagon. Loam put it down to the difficult journey ahead.

     Apona proceeded at a canter, struggling only slightly with the added burden, and for the second time they considered the tunnel before them.

     ‘Are you armed?’ asked Loam over his shoulder.

     Cojiro produced a thin rapier from the wagon, turning it over in his hand. ‘I will defend your rear to the last, young sir,’ he said, with the ghost of a wry smile.

     ‘Then we proceed.’

     And in moments, the lamplight was a distant glimmer deep within the darkness.

 

* * *

 

     Cojiro was talkative.

     ‘…hasn’t a dashed idea what to make of it, of course, but it’s an ill omen, having the pass blocked off by snow this far out from winter, and the Peak province has always been a sort of “canary down the mine”, you know, things go bad there before they go bad everywhere else, history tells us…’

     Loam found his prattle greatly irritating. The man was nervous, which was fair — Loam’s own nerves were a jangled mess — but in this black and twisted warren, silence was essential.

     ‘…which reminds me of a proverb: “licketh not the reekfish, lest…”’

     ‘Cojiro?’ interjected Loam. ‘Please be quiet.’

     The older man looked taken aback in the firelight. He bowed his head slightly, a small, abashed smile playing on his lips.

     ‘Frightully sorry,’ he whispered. ‘It’s just…er…rather spooky in here, you know.’

     Loam knew all too well. The lantern cast a guttering orange circle around them, and against the dripping walls and ceiling it glistened in thousands of tiny facets. Occasionally, a passageway would open to their left or right, but lichen-mottled signposts told them to stay the course, and Loam was obedient. With Cojiro having shut his mouth, the only sound now was the grumbling of the wagon’s wheels, stifled by the narrow tunnel. The darkness kept its secrets, before and behind.

     ‘We may be getting close,’ whispered Loam after a while. He fidgeted in the saddle, refusing to surrender his fear to hope.

     ‘Capital,’ Cojiro whispered back. ‘Mind the bats, won’t you?’

     Loam’s heart skipped a beat. Sure enough, the lantern revealed a nest of sleeping bats above them, black and mangy, their faces enveloped by leathery wings. They swung slightly from their perch and chittered in fits and starts. The thought of disturbing them chilled him to the core, and so Loam chewed the insides of his cheeks and made his advance beneath a ceiling choked with tiny bodies.

     A heavy thud, and the groan of an axle: the wagon had caught a pothole, and rocked from side to side, the contents shifting around inside with conspicuous volume. Loam winced, jerking the reins to slow Apona to the gentlest of trots. Cojiro clutched his rapier, taut with apprehension.

     Then they glimpsed the eyes.

     Two red eyes, small as pinpricks, framed by a wicked little face with a flat snout and a vampiric grin. It had opened its wings like a pair of shutters, and examined the intruders with playful interest. Loam regarded it in return, disguising his fear with an admonishing frown, almost willing it to hold its silence: _don’t you dare._

     It was no use.

     A keening, reverberating screech rent the air, and in seconds the tunnel was illuminated by a whole constellation of red eyes, which became a maelstrom of beating wings, scratching claws and endless, unbearable shrieking. Apona reared up onto her hind legs, her own screams swallowed up in the tumult, but she did not bolt; paralysed, she simply lingered on two feet and beat blindly at the air with her front legs. Loam crossed his arms over his face and yelled into his sleeve, again and again, the sword and lantern held high like a sigil. He glanced up in time to see a monster bat, the mother of them all, descending upon him. Its empty eyes were as big as saucers, and its jaw seemed to dislocate at the hinge, the mouth hellishly long and crowded with fangs. Unthinkingly, he speared it through the chest, pinning it to the wall where it struggled for a moment, then was still.

     The cloud lifted, then dispersed, the clamour of indignant babble growing fainter and fainter in either direction until all that remained was the sound of heavy breathing.

     ‘Good gravy,’ panted Cojiro. ‘That was a fright-and-a-half, eh?’

     Loam felt like crying. He craved relief, yearned for it. With hands that shook like an old man’s, he sheathed the sword and gave the reins a limp slap against Apona’s shoulders.

     ‘Hut-hut,’ he croaked. ‘C’mon, girl. Almost there, almost…almost…’

     But the screeching approached a second time, growing ever louder, advancing up the passage in the gloom behind them. Loam made to speak, to cry out, but it died in his throat; the bats were gone for good — now rats as big as terriers poured forth underfoot in a torrent of glossy hair and writhing tails. Both Loam and Cojiro exclaimed in revulsion, as Apona stamped on the spot in distress, crushing one with a disgusting noise.

     ‘Where are they off to in such a hurry, then?’ wondered Cojiro loudly.

     Loam frowned for a moment, then felt the blood drain from his face.

     ‘They’re fleeing,’ he observed in a hollow voice.

     Together with Cojiro, he turned to look behind the wagon, where the firelight played at the tips of more legs than either man cared to count — legs the length and thickness of Loam’s canoe at home; curled, insectile legs covered with coarse and matted hair; legs that framed the single, gigantic yellow eye that roved and darted in its socket at the centre of them. When at last the eye fixed upon its target, it shook with pleasure and anticipation, and the creature’s mandibled jaws hissed and drooled poison to signal its appetite for flesh.

     ‘Oh — my — gods,’ said Cojiro dully. ‘Loam?’

     ‘ _YA, YA!’_ bellowed Loam, belting the reins and kicking madly in the stirrups.

     Apona charged. Behind her, the wagon bounced and rocked, Cojiro clinging on for dear life and casting horrified looks over his shoulder as the scuttling mass pushed through after them. The tunnel dipped and wound, and loud crashes echoed jarringly up and down the length of the passageway as the wheels struck against depressions in the earth, the wooden shafts that bound horse and carriage straining in the flurry of movement.

     Loam had turned manic, bent double in the saddle and willing his steed forward with his whole body. _How much farther?_

     He had his answer. Around the bend, a light like a star winked at him insubstantially — the exit to Hyrule Field. Just as his spirits began to lift, a leaden feeling, like a stupor, fell upon him. For one breathless moment, he believed his senses were playing tricks on him in hysteria, slowing the world down, rendering Apona’s gallop a laboured half-march. It was Cojiro who corrected him:

     ‘Loam, Loam, _Loam!’_ he wailed. ‘ _It’s got the wagon, it’s right on us!’_

     Spinning around in the saddle, Loam saw the truth of it with his own eyes. The monstrous, prehensile legs were fastening, one after the other, around the canvassed roof of Cojiro’s wagon, consuming it like an inkblot over parchment. The golden eye peered straight through from the rear of it, shivering with impatience, and with glee.

     ‘ _Get on the horse!’_ demanded Loam. ‘ _Cojiro, jump!’_

     ‘ _But my effects, my things!’_ wailed the other, hacking at the legs with his rapier to no effect.

     ‘ _Forget your things, GET ON THE HORSE!’_

     Teeth gnashing, Cojiro snatched a rucksack and a handful of long scrolls from behind him and pounced from his seat, landing awkwardly at Loam’s back. Loam shouted something garbled, a war cry, a man’s roar, and hurled the oil lantern over his shoulder and into the wagon, where it burst apart in a rush of scattered flame. Shrieks of outrage accompanied the retreat of the creature’s fearsome legs, the eye roving in mad circles once more as the wagon erupted into a blazing fireball.

     ‘ _GO, GO, GO!’_

     Apona took off at full tilt, the flames licking at her tail as she dragged the inferno in her wake.

     ‘Cut us loose!’ demanded Loam through gritted teeth. The exit grew rapidly before them, changing from a star, to a gold coin, to a dish…

     Cojiro struck at Apona’s bonds lamely, clutching Loam across the chest with his other arm.

     ‘ _Do it, Cojiro!’_ cried Loam. The light grew ever brighter.

     Only by some miracle did the older man’s blade connect at last with the harness, splitting it like an elastic band and detaching horse and riders from the scorched wagon, which rumbled to a halt and carried on burning in the darkness of the tunnel.

     Unencumbered, Apona exploded from the mouth of the cave into the brilliant sunset, its dazzling red radiance set upon a mantle of retreating storm clouds. Hyrule Field stretched a hundred leagues north, east and west of them; vast, lush, and savagely beautiful, a sprawling canvas of autumnal colours, a land of a thousand legends.

     At a hundred yards from the border of the woodland, Loam drew back the reins and slowed them to a zigzagging canter. When they stopped, he fell from the saddle, fell face-down into the soft, wet earth, which he dug at with his fingernails, uprooting blades of grass, gasping in the freshness of it, the purity.

     Then he wept.

     He wept and wept.

 


	7. Smear

     Night fell in haste.

     They made their camp at the foot of a rocky escarpment, alongside the bank of a creek, and Cojiro (who proved to be rather resourceful with the pressure off) had built for them a small fire. It crackled merrily, stray sparks dancing for the sky and winking out, never to join the stars there. Loam could see them all so clearly out here, the constellations he had learned as a boy — learned from Colin, naturally — and counted them off in his mind as he rested against Apona’s prostrate body: Sweet Orielle, the tenacious, who left to explore her island of pleasures and did not return; Boy Blue, the lost groom, whose own wedding went ahead without him on account of a terrible curse…

     Loss was very much a part of Hylian folk tales.

     To the east, Death Mountain loomed over all. He had seen it by light of the sun’s last rays, ominous yet indistinct, obscured in a haze of red and brown. By dark, it was as clear as their campfire, smouldering at the seams right to its enormous caldera, a nightmarish crag brimming with hot power, with primal force as old as the world.

     ‘Breathtaking, eh?’ remarked Cojiro, following Loam’s gaze.

     ‘It looks so…dangerous,’ decided Loam.

     ‘Mm, but you mustn’t worry. I can assure you, the Goron tribe work tirelessly to keep it in check. There’s not been an eruption for decades now, which is all to the good — they just built a bowling alley in New Kakariko, and I’ve been itching to give it a go, ha ha!’

     ‘“New Kakariko?”’ Loam repeated. He had never heard it called that before.

     ‘Oh, yes,’ said Cojiro. He leaned back against a boulder, nibbling dry berries from a leather pouch and looking thoughtful. ‘Years ago — you’d have been just a baby, if you were here at all — our King, gods rest him, reclaimed the northern pass near Eldin Bridge from the bandit army who had taken it over. There, he found a hidden village — utterly deserted, of course — but littered with artefacts bearing the mark of the ancient shadow tribe. Old Kakariko, frozen in time! Of course, only oddballs like myself care to tell the two apart. I’m a dreadful stickler for accuracy, me.’

     Loam smiled at him. He turned the story over in his head. _Hidden villages…ancient tribes…bandit armies…_ how much had he missed out on, growing up in Ordon? Though tired, and desperately worried for his people, curiosity stirred within him, and he experienced the uniquely boyish feeling of wanting to ask a lot of questions in a hurry. He considered a moment, then spoke:

     ‘What were you doing in the woods?’

     Cojiro fixed him with a shrewd half-grin, chewing the berries with enjoyment.

     ‘A fine question, sir, and one I shall be happy to answer.’ He leaned forward to drape his elbows over his knees, peering into the fire. ‘I,’ he began, ‘am a member of a secret society known only as the _Resistance_. My own dear father was a founding member in his youth — long ago, in the Days of Endless Night — and we perform the same service now as then: traveling hither and yon across Hyrule, investigating all things strange and worrisome. Rumours, you understand…or rumours of rumours. Rumours which — if proven correct — could spell disaster for our world.’

     Loam tilted his head quizzically.

     ‘Isn’t that the army’s job?’ he wondered.

     ‘The army, _feh!’_ said Cojiro with a snort of derision. ‘Heavens, no. Closed minds in thick skulls, and cowards to the last man, believe you me.’

     It did not please Loam to discover this. He was counting on their help.

     ‘So, what sort of rumours drew you to Faron?’ he persisted.

     ‘Monsters,’ said Cojiro. He let the word hang in the air for a moment, staring into Loam’s eyes with an expression of dark significance. ‘Monsters of a number and kind not seen in this world since before you or I were born. And it’s hardly a rumour now — after what I’ve seen, I shall have much to share with my friends when we meet tomorrow night.’

     At this, the older man eased himself onto his side, clutching his rucksack in both arms and nestling his head against it.

     ‘It’s late,’ he declared, ‘and you must be exhausted after a day like today.’

     Loam gazed drowsily over at the full moon, nodding his agreement. He had last woken to find Bartl vandalising his mother’s pumpkin. It felt like an eternity ago; in reality, a mere twenty-four hours. Against his back, Apona’s slow, rhythmic breathing was a lullaby, and he was warmed by her, and by the fire as it dwindled down to embers. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he beheld the silhouettes of distant vultures circling. Then sleep took him in its arms, at precisely the moment a wolf howled from someplace far and cold.

 

* * *

 

     They set out at first light, due north along a dirt track that snaked up and down the rolling hills and valleys of the Field. It was a quiet journey, and a beautiful one, and though saddle sore and caked with dirt, Loam knew a swelling, ecstatic sense of freedom in his heart, glorying in the enormity of the world around him.

     ‘We’ve just crossed into the Lanayru Province!’ hollered Cojiro over Apona’s hoofbeats. He pointed to a rushing stream ahead, as Loam made to cross the stone arch that bridged one bank to the other. ‘That’s the river Zora, on its way to the great lake southwest of here.’

     Loam nodded, looking on in fascination. Cojiro had talked virtually nonstop for hours, but what annoyed Loam in that terrible cave did not annoy him in the daylight; he drank in the older man’s stories and trivia and posed endless questions at him in return. The world was new, and he was smitten by it.

     Late in the day, they passed through a rock gully and emerged at the top of a small precipice, from which the towers of Hyrule Castle could be seen above the yellow haze of the afternoon.

     ‘Magnificent,’ remarked Cojiro. ‘Another hour’s ride, at best. We’ve done well for time!’

     ‘Hut,’ murmured Loam absently, giving the reins a light slap. He was transfixed by the vision before him, and advanced them slowly down the incline, the better to take it all in.

     Apona’s gallop had become ungainly by the time they reached the forecourt below the South Gate, and her breathing was erratic. Loam tugged at the reins, his smooth brow knit with concern.

     ‘Easy, girl,’ he murmured. ‘Easy…’

     At the cobblestones they dismounted, and Loam fed her grain from his hand, stroking her face appreciatively. Cojiro stretched, cracking various stiff bones and shaking out his hands and feet. He also plucked at the crotch of his cotton trousers, shooting Loam a pained grin.

     ‘Oo-er,’ he chuckled. ‘Bit rough on the ol’ Dekus, that saddle. I shall have to find some ice.’

     ‘Will she be all right here?’ asked Loam, gesturing at Apona, who drank deeply from a fountain set between two flights of stone stairs.

     ‘Oh, she’ll be fine. The rock walls of the valley form a natural corral, and there are guards on patrol, besides.’

     Satisfied, Loam nuzzled her face a final time, and together with Cojiro departed on foot for their destination.

     Over the moat and through the iron gate, Castle Town opened up before them like a flower. In the early evening, the south road was strung either side with colourful box lanterns, casting a mellow rainbow hue over the markets and stalls that choked the passage end-to-end. It was busy and loud, with sellers hawking their wares, buyers haggling for a deal, and the ongoing hiss of sizzling pans over stoves. Striped awning covered rows of jewellery, of fruit, of rare herbs and medicines; weapons and trinkets, toys, devices and sundry items winked, fizzed, flashed and burst in their turn. Best of all was the sweet and savoury aroma that hung tantalisingly in the air, wafting about in a visible cloud.

     ‘Wow,’ was all Loam could say.

     ‘Quite right,’ laughed Cojiro, practically aglow with satisfaction. He clapped Loam on the shoulder. ‘I’d take you on a tour, but I’m afraid I must be off — my friends will be waiting for me. Look, Loam…I can’t even begin to put my gratitude into words. You had your own urgent business to attend to, yet you didn’t think twice about helping a broken down old duffer like me out of a tight spot. And those heroics in the tunnel! Gumption like I’ve never seen!’

     ‘It’s nothing, really,’ smiled Loam, patting his hand. ‘I enjoyed your stories a lot.’

     ‘Tell you what: if you’ve a moment to spare after delivering your note to the Queen, why not come say hello to my fellow renegades? We’ll be at Telma’s Bar well into the night, I expect — cosy little dive just down the lane there, charming place — I know you’d get on with the whole gang.’

     ‘Thanks,’ said Loam, and he meant it. ‘If I get the chance, I’d be happy to.’

     ‘Well, cheerio, then!’ said the other. ‘And best of luck protecting your village!’

     He disappeared into the crowd, leaving Loam on his own. Delicately, and with a great deal of awkward apologising, Loam began to push his way up the south road, wending around scattered crates, roving bands of children, feuding shoppers, and escaped Cuccoos running amok. No-one spared him a second look, or even a first one, for which he was grateful — there were lashings of black monster blood encrusted over his sleeves, and mud stains from the soles of his boots to the hem of his tunic. He was wondering where he might find a place to bathe, when he walked directly into what appeared to be a giant boulder.

     It shifted, and turned to peer down at him. Loam gaped, taking in its features: tiny, bovine eyes over a wide mouth set into a face the colour of earth, ape arms dragging fists the size of ham hocks against the flagstones, and a belly like a witch’s cauldron, bare and plain. They regarded one another in stunned silence for some time, before it proffered a bottle at him unexpectedly.

     ‘Hot springwater?’ it asked in a voice thick and low.

     ‘Uh…okay?’ said Loam, his own voice smaller than he remembered.

     The transaction complete, he carried on walking with a lighter wallet and a dazed look, the warm bottle held limply at his side. At the head of the road was Central Square, a broad plaza encircled by storehouses, saloons, luxury apartments, bazaars and mighty colonnades. The water that played from its fountain glittered in the light of the setting sun; beyond, the castle towered over him, its many turrets arranged around the single spire that pierced the sky.

     Relief washed over him, rendering slack the tension that had gripped him since the moment Raya’s scream had turned the world on its head. He laughed, then — actually laughed — and jogged across the square to where the north road rose in a gentle slope to the castle gates. He had arrived. His mission was over.

     On either side of the wrought iron lattice that barred the way to the castle grounds, two members of the Royal Guard stood sentry. Their hawkish faces were half-disguised by the visors of their helmets, and each bore a lance and golden shield. They did not smile to see Loam approach. They did not even move.

     ‘Halt,’ said the guard to his left at five paces from the gate. ‘State your business.’

     His voice was clear and formal. Loam drew back half a step, and summoned a courtly manner from somewhere inside himself, feeling confident even under their blank, appraising gaze.

     ‘Good day,’ he began. ‘My name is Loam. I come — uh, that is, I _hail_ — from the village of Ordon, in the south.’

     ‘I would never have guessed,’ said the guard to his right. His thin mouth was very slightly curled at the corners.

     Loam’s hopeful expression faltered slightly. He was more aware than ever of his own appearance and odour, and despite his important mission felt a dull flush begin to creep up his neck.

     ‘Uhm…I’ve journeyed…uh, across great distances on behalf of the mayor of Ordon, bear-uh, bearing a letter that I must deliver to the Queen.’ His face hardened, and he finished loudly: ‘It’s a matter of great urgency.’

     ‘Your favourite goat take up with another feller, did she?’ the guard on the right persisted. His mocking grin had graduated to an all-out sneer now. ‘They’re a fickle breed, lad. Best to put her out to pasture and get on with your life.’

     Loam gaped at him in outrage, so lost for words they simply stared each other down in silence for nearly a minute. The first guard interjected.

     ‘If you’ve a letter, present it now,’ he instructed, sounding irritable.

     Reluctantly, and with his deep glare still fixed upon the one who had antagonised him, Loam reached into his vest and produced Mayor Thom’s official letter, folded in half and damp around the edges, but otherwise undamaged. He placed it in the guard’s outstretched hand, and waited in silence as the man began to read.

     ‘Is this a joke?’ said the guard suddenly.

     Loam started. ‘Absolutely not,’ he replied, nonplussed. ‘That’s the mayor’s signature, that’s his —’

     ‘Oh, _this_ is your mayor’s signature, huh?’ demanded the man. He handed Loam the letter back, his downturned mouth in stark contrast to his partner’s own indulgent grin. ‘This is your ticket into the castle, is it? Do you take us for idiots?’

     Panic and confusion twisted Loam’s features into a mask of bewilderment. He mouthed soundlessly for a moment, before dropping his eyes to the letter in his fisted hands.

     It was then that his heart crashed.

     The page was as good as blank. Pale brown streaks and smudges stained the bottom corners, but they were all that remained of the mayor’s plea for aid. The battle at Faron Spring had washed the letter clean of anything that might grant him an audience with the Royal Family. He had travelled across the whole of Hyrule bearing a scrap of nothing, and with nothing he would return.

     ‘I’m sure your mayor tried his best,’ the guard on the right taunted softly. ‘But if he wants the Queen’s ear, he’ll have to learn to read and write first.’

     A wild urge to punch him in the nose came over Loam like a dizzy spell. Both guards seemed to sense this, tightening their grip on the spears meaningfully.

     ‘Please,’ he croaked. ‘I swear. My village is in danger. Please, let me speak to the Queen?’

     ‘Nothing doing, boy,’ said the first. ‘If you want to get past this gate, come back in the spring. We recruit farmhands to muck out the stables then.’

     And they chuckled at him, low and dirty, as he turned around and trudged back in the direction of town, broken and defeated without even having drawn his sword.

 


	8. Red Leon

     ‘What can I get you, honey?’ asked the woman at the bar.

     Loam didn’t hear her. He was shellshocked, reeling, the worthless letter clutched in a crinkled ball in his fist. His surroundings came to him in a series of odd, guttering flashes, like a candlelit picture book: tables and stools, a day watchman slumped over a mug, a high ceiling crisscrossed with long shadows, and a tapestry, an elaborate tapestry of a red-haired woman winking and blowing a kiss just for him. It was warm in Telma’s Bar, but Loam’s blood had run completely cold.

     ‘Huh?’ he muttered finally.

     The woman tittered. She was neither young nor pretty, but her manner was kind. He came to his senses as one emerging from deep water.

     ‘Just…bread, please. Warm bread. And drink!’ he added quickly. ‘Something strong. Please.’

     ‘I’ve got just the thing,’ she assured him, and turned to busy herself with an assortment of colourful bottles.

     Loam removed his glasses and set them on the counter. He pressed thumb and forefinger to his eyes, letting the tears burn and well as his emotions waged a terrible war within.

_Inhale, exhale._

     He could hear the night’s wind whistling at the door. Outside was the world, and he was going to have to cross it on his own, and brave the woods a second time, only to arrive at home a failure, with nothing and no-one to protect his beloved village from the evil bearing down on it. He hefted his wallet — enough for elixirs and arrows, but what would it fetch him at the armoury? A dagger, perhaps? Two? Hardly the cache he had been sent to retrieve. If he hadn’t blown so many Rupees on hot springwater, he might have had enough for a whole other sword. The mere thought made him irrationally angry, but the feeling crested and broke and dissolved into fresh misery almost at once.

     ‘Here y’are, cutie,’ said the woman with her fond smile. ‘This’ll replenish those hearts.’

     She slid a foaming flagon his way. Catching it, Loam murmured a weary ‘Thank you’ and upended it to receive his first mouthful, which promptly exploded in a spray from his twisted, gagging face.

     ‘ _Aaarkhh!’_ he rasped, bracing a hand against the bar to stop himself from heaving. It tasted like pure lantern oil, and felt as if it would burn a hole through his tongue. ‘What is that?’

     ‘Death Mountain mead with a shot of yellow chu,’ laughed the woman. She was towelling down her arms and grinning from ear-to-ear. ‘Sweetie, when you ask for something strong at Telma’s, you had better mean it!’

     She carried on chuckling like it was the funniest thing in the world. Loam felt dangerously close to giving her a piece of his mind, until a voice from across the room captured his attention.

     ‘Loam?’

     It was Cojiro. He was haloed by orange light from the fireplace behind him, but even in shadow Loam could see his enormous grin.

     ‘Good gracious, so it is! Here you are already, old boy!’ he cheered.

     ‘Hi, Cojiro,’ said Loam. It was all he could think to say.

     ‘I was only just telling everyone about our feats of derring-do down Faron way! Come, come, you’ve got to meet them all…’

     He hooked an arm around Loam’s shoulders and half-led, half-hustled him in the direction of the single table by the fireplace. It was framed by heavy drapes — a private area — and every inch of its surface was papered with overlapping maps and diagrams. Around it sat four of the most peculiar people Loam had ever seen in one place.

     ‘Here he is, here he is!’ declared Cojiro brightly. ‘Fellow adventurers, allow me to introduce the very chap I’ve been harping on about — Loam! Loam, these are my friends, and Hyrule’s last line of defence against all things dark and nasty — _the Resistance!’_

     For a moment, no-one spoke. Then a man stood to his feet, a man of such size that the fireplace was concealed behind his vastness and the whole of the bar was dimmed to shadows. Loam tried to look courteous with his head tipped nearly all the way back.

     ‘This is Grist,’ Cojiro began, ‘the finest mountaineer you’ll ever meet. From the Peak Province, you know — I’d say there was something of the yeti about him, wouldn’t you?’ 

     ‘You’re a funny man, Cojiro,’ said Grist good-naturedly. He grinned down at Loam over a tidy blonde beard and a barrel chest, and there was warmth in his crinkly eyes that Loam found at once disarming. ‘Good to meet you, boyo.’ He extended a hand the size of a haunch of venison, and the greeting was complete.

     ‘Down here we have Maggie,’ said Cojiro, as Grist returned to his seat.

     It occurred to Loam that his next acquaintance was already standing up. That this was not immediately obvious owed to the fact that she was very short — as short as Grist was tall — and the reason for this unnerved him: she could barely have been twelve years old, if appearances meant anything. Unlike Grist, she scowled at him, her cute, round face contorted with threats and skepticism. Through dressed in a bright pink petticoat, she wore gigantic armoured gloves, the knuckles of which she was presently cracking.

     ‘Not the chatty type, as you’ll see,’ explained Cojiro delicately, ‘but a dab hand at policing every nook and cranny of this old town, let me tell you.’

     He gestured with an upturned palm at a woman seated diagonally opposite.

     ‘May I introduce Lady Rahala, of the Zora,’ he continued, with reverent pleasure. ‘Our eyes in the water.’

     Loam did a slight double-take, becoming especially careful not to stare.

     The woman — if she was indeed a woman — was unclothed, but was by no means indecent for all that. Her skin was the blue-grey of a faraway thunderstorm, and though her torso had feminine contours, it was blank and vague and gave nothing away. Loam found himself instead drawn to the long patterned sails that trailed from her wrists and from either side of her thin face, and to her lavender eyes, which stared back at him, not unkindly, and hinted at deep oceans of wisdom and sadness.

     ‘How do you do, Loam?’ she said, proffering a delicate hand.

     ‘Very well, thank you,’ he said automatically, and took her fingers in his. They were pleasantly cool.

     ‘Our lady risks much for this worthy cause,’ explained Cojiro. ‘Her people, very like our own, are not above becoming complacent in times of peace. And frozen streams are a dark omen, history always shows…’

     Lady Rahala merely bowed her eyes.

     ‘So, then! I suppose that only leaves one final introduction!’ said Cojiro, and all eyes turned to the figure at the head of the table. ‘Dear boy, it is my great honour to present to you our most fearless leader — the one, the only, _Red Leon_.’

     Loam started to speak even before Cojiro had finished. ‘Very nice to meet you—’ he blurted, but stopped just shy of adding “sir” at the last second. It hung there in the silence conspicuously, not knowing where to go.

     Somewhat appropriately, the one called Red Leon was cloaked head-to-toe in deepest crimson. Its loose cowl hooded all but his nose and jaw, which were so fair and smooth that their owner could not have been a day older than Loam’s seventeen years. Above the slightly pointed chin, the young man’s lips were curled into a small, wry smile.

     ‘The pleasure’s all mine,’ he assured Loam quietly. ‘Please, seat yourself.’

     Cojiro eased Loam onto a barstool and gifted him with a flagon of ale, mercifully free of chu jelly. The other members of the Resistance did not disguise their interest in him, causing Loam to wonder just how much Cojiro had told them about their narrow escape from the woods the previous day.

     ‘Well, then,’ said Red Leon, interrupting his reverie. ‘Trouble afoot in the forest, mm?’

     ‘You could put it that way,’ said Loam flatly.

     ‘Why don’t you start from the beginning?’

     Loam winced. ‘I…I don’t want to interrupt your meeting…’

     ‘I insist that you do.’

     ‘Oh. All right. Uh, let’s see…’

     It was off-putting, having to speak to someone whose eyes were concealed, and who sat so very still with his fingers steepled before him like a judge. So Loam averted his own eyes, and began to share his story with a mouse hole in the corner, trusting those around him to take him at his word. He told them about Ordon Village, and how its perfect idyll came crashing down the night Raya was assaulted by a monster; he spoke of the solemn mission the people had bestowed upon him, and how it had gone so quickly and hopelessly awry at Faron Spring; of the great infestation of evil that had settled over that part of the world, and how unprepared the villagers were to meet it. He was only partway through describing his and Cojiro’s close call in the tunnel, when the man Grist interrupted him suddenly, looking avid.

     ‘Didn’t I tell you, Red?’ he demanded. ‘It’s the same story all over Snowpeak! Tektites, leevers — even lizalfos! — running around like they own the place. And you know where they’re coming from as well as I do —’

     ‘Easy now, Grist,’ muttered Cojiro, though Red Leon was imperturbable.

     ‘Where _are_ they coming from?’ asked Loam, leaning forward.

     ‘The desert,’ declared Grist, raising a finger the size of a deli meat. ‘Bloody Gerudo Desert, innit? Out on the fringes of this green land, past the lake. That’s where all the monsters fled in the dying days of twilight, and that’s where they’ve stayed these eighty years of peace. Until now…’

     ‘Times are changing,’ noted Red Leon.

     ‘Too fast,’ said Lady Rahala unexpectedly. She was peering intently at the maps on the table. ‘No-one expected the sand women to return to Hyrule. They have been gone for hundreds of years.’

     ‘Yet, return they have,’ said Red Leon. He sounded almost amused, and looked it, too, with his strange, blind smile. ‘Bandits one and all, back from the dead to set up a fortress at the Arbiter’s Grounds.’

     ‘Yeah, but they’re not the reason the monsters have packed up and left, Red,’ said Grist hotly. ‘Don’t ignore the facts! It’s the Royal Army, led by that hoity-toity Prince, moving in to wage war on a handful of deadbeat sand floozies, and in the process flushing all manner of beasties out into the world! They’ll overrun the whole of the West before long—’

     ‘The Arbiter’s Gounds are royal property, Grist,’ Red Leon patiently explained. ‘If left to their own devices, the Gerudo would turn it into a base, and start up night raids on the citizenry, like in days of old. The Prince knows this. Once he’s stamped them out, things will go back to the way they were, I’m sure of it.’

     Grist looked sour. ‘Well, upstart little Mister Prince had better be prepared to compensate the likes of Ordon Village for their trouble in the meantime,’ he spat.

     ‘But of course he will!’ said Cojiro loudly. He had looked unnerved throughout the argument, and sounded overly enthusiastic about moving the conversation along. ‘Why, that’s the reason Loam has come here in the first place, isn’t it, Loam? Tell us, how did it go at court? Was the Queen generous in her provision?’

     Everyone looked at him expectantly. Loam withered beneath their gaze, and knew, without really caring, that his broken heart was etched all over his face for them to see.

     ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘No, I never made it past the palace gates.’

     ‘What? Why not?’ wondered Grist, incredulous.

     In reply, Loam produced the Mayor’s letter, unfurling it on the table and doing his best to smooth down the creases so that all could see its true worth.

     ‘It was wiped clean in the spring,’ he explained bitterly. ‘But try telling that to the guards.’

     Cojiro looked stricken. He squeezed Loam’s shoulder, but could offer him no words of comfort. Grist and Maggie looked disgusted, Lady Rahala mournful. Red Leon, however, remained as he was — still as a statue, head bowed, with that maddening smile still playing over his lips. It was in that moment that Loam decided to despise him.

     ‘Something you’d like to share with the class, Red?’ said Grist with a hint of a snarl.

     ‘Oh, it’s nothing, really,’ Red Leon replied. ‘Just you, Loam. It’s a funny little thought, wouldn’t you say? Slaying moblins, outrunning giant spiders, crossing half the world, only to call it a day when some dogsbody in a helmet and breechclout tells you "No?"’

     ‘I’m happy I amuse you,’ said Loam. Even to his own ears, his voice was glacially cold.

     ‘Have a heart, Red!’ chided Cojiro. ‘The boy’s been through enough without you laying it on like—’

     ‘Stop there,’ said Red Leon, and all was quiet. ‘This pity party’s over. Loam, if you’re even half as daring as Cojiro makes you out to be, it’s indecent of you to carry on like this is the end of your quest.’

     ‘So enlighten me,’ said Loam through clenched teeth. ‘What’s the next step?’

     Slowly, Red Leon pointed to the dark ceiling.

     ‘Anyone who’s anyone knows that there’s a hidden passage that joins Telma’s Bar to the castle dungeons,’ he began. ‘You could be there in barely an hour’s time—’

     ‘And rot there for the rest of your days!’ Grist interjected with a derisive snort. ‘What are you playing at, Red? So the boy sneaks inside — what then? Even if he avoided capture on the way to the throne room, what do you think would happen when he presents himself to the Queen? He wouldn’t get two words out before her Golden Guard run him through with swords and spears!’

     ‘You’re very right, of course,’ replied Red Leon. ‘She wouldn’t know you from a common burglar.’

     ‘So, why bother?’ said Lady Rahala. Even she looked annoyed with her leader.

     He grinned more broadly then, and a moment later produced something from his flowing robes which he cast before them all. It was a large glass butterfly, beautifully fashioned in shades of pink and yellow, on the end of a glittering chain.

     ‘It is a _very_ closely guarded secret that the Queen has an obsession for joy pendants,’ he said, in barely a whisper now. ‘Such an obsession, in fact, that she has been known to grant an audience to whomever can produce one in her presence.’

     His followers looked astounded. Cojiro found his voice first.

     ‘Where did you get this?’ he hissed.

     ‘How do you know this?’ asked Lady Rahala, which was perhaps the more pertinent question.

     ‘Your beloved leader has his ways,’ replied Red Leon shrewdly. ‘The point is this: now that you have been gifted with this opportunity, Loam, will you take it? Are you truly prepared to risk it all for your people?’

     All eyes turned back to Loam, wide and serious in the firelight. He rose, very slowly, from his stool, and looked down at the joy pendant as though it might bite him at any moment. His heart had begun to drum a persistent tattoo against his ribs again, and with it came the visions — Colin, Raya, Wren, his mother — clear and forceful, extinguishing his hesitation, though not his fear. Swallowing noticeably, he reached a hand for it.

     ‘Be warned,’ Red Leon added. ‘There are worse things than night watchmen patrolling that castle. They say an ancient shadow stalks the corridors, bound to protect the Royal Line by any means necessary, and skilled in all manner of deadly arts. What I’m saying, Loam, is this: you will either succeed tonight, or you will die.’

     Loam’s hand hovered over the table. He peered at the other young man intently, wishing only to see his eyes, to divine some kind of truth from him. But Red Leon gave nothing of himself away, and merely smiled.

     There was a jangle of silver and precious stones as Loam gathered up the joy pendant into his fist. He stood up straight, and announced his decision to the Resistance in a clear and resonant voice:

     ‘Show me the way.’

 

 

 

 


	9. The Hard Way

****

     ‘Here we are, then,’ said Red Leon. ‘The way, way down.’

     They were in a cramped room with faded scarlet wallpaper. It was slashed in places, revealing old boards frosted with cobwebs beneath. The floor was bare, but for a few coins scattered haphazardly in one corner, and a dusty treasure chest embossed with golden vines in the centre.

     ‘What is this place?’ wondered Loam.

     ‘It belonged to a rich man, a very long time ago,’ replied Red Leon airily. He waved his flaming torch in a desultory fashion, casting odd shadows along the ceiling. ‘He grew weary of it.’ 

     They had entered through a passageway in the wall outside the bar, having first climbed to the top of a pile of stacked crates. It was a tight fit, so much so that Grist had to wait in the alleyway, smoking his pipe and muttering about “big bones.” The others stood alongside Loam, watching their leader warily as he moved through the room toward the chest. Red Leon grinned over his shoulder and beckoned with his head to follow, but Loam stayed put, his eyes narrowed.

     ‘I don’t understand,’ he said slowly. ‘There’s nowhere else to go.’

     ‘Isn’t there?’ chuckled the other.

     With a swift kick, the chest swung open. The five of them gathered around it to peer down, not at riches in a box, but at a hole, ink black and barely wide enough for a man to fit through. The smell of stale water rose up from it.

     ‘A trapdoor,’ murmured Cojiro. ‘Fascinating.’

     ‘Down here is the city’s waterway,’ explained Red Leon. ‘Its flow will take you straight to the castle’s foundation, and the dungeon at the bottom of the south tower. From there it’s just a matter of sneaking in to the throne room.’

     ‘ _Just_ ,’ Loam quietly echoed with a humourless scoff.

     ‘Maggie will take you part of the way,’ he went on. ‘She knows these sewers inside and out, don’t you, Maggie?’

     The girl Maggie merely scowled. Her skinny arms were crossed, the massive silver gauntlets a strange blend of comical and terrifying in repose. Red Leon’s smile remained. He stepped to one side, his hand resting lightly on Lady Rahala’s back as she, too, made way, leaving Loam with only Cojiro at his side.

     ‘Best of luck, dear boy,’ said the older man, not quite succeeding in disguising his anxiety. ‘I must say, it’s been a pretty rotten couple of days for you.’

     ‘Thanks, Cojiro,’ said Loam, giving him a weak smile.

     Red Leon waggled a finger suddenly, appearing to remember something: ‘One more thing,’ he added.

     Without preamble, he passed his torch to Lady Rahala and crossed back to Loam in two strides, whereupon he began to fiddle with the scabbard at Loam’s side, unbuckling it.

     ‘What are you doing?’ Loam protested, swatting at him uncertainly, but the leader of the Resistance had already worked free the Ordon Sword, and held it at arm’s length. ‘Give that back — are you crazy?’

     ‘Quite the opposite,’ Red Leon assured him. ‘A weapon’s the last thing you’ll need inside the castle walls.’

     ‘But what if I meet a guard?’

     ‘Don’t.’

_‘How will I defend myself?’_

     ‘Non-violently.’ He sounded bland, but oddly firm. ‘Trust me on this. All the joy pendants in the world won’t get you an audience with the Queen if you’ve spilt the blood of a royal guard on her carpet.’

     ‘I’m afraid he’s right, Loam,’ said Cojiro heavily. ‘Discretion’s the only weapon you’ve got in there.’

     Loam drew a long, shuddering breath, flexing his empty hands until they were balled into fists. ‘Fine,’ he said at length. ‘Just don’t lose it. It’s an heirloom.’

     Maggie spat on the floor and cracked her neck from side-to-side. She spared them all one last baleful grimace, flattened her arms against her sides, and leapt feet-first into the hole, trailing only silence in her wake. Loam grit his teeth and braced himself against the panelling of the chest, rueing every step of this whole mad endeavour. Crouched over it, he looked up into Red Leon’s face one final time, catching only a glimpse of a twinkling eye beneath the cowl.

     ‘Thank you for your help,’ he said simply.

     Then, without waiting for a reply, he clambered inside and let go.

 

* * *

 

     It was a straight plummet through total blackness, and it went on for far longer than Loam had been prepared. By the time he had gathered enough breath in his lungs for a scream, however, his feet had pierced through a sheet of icy water, leaving him to thrash his way back to the surface in a panic. For a time he stayed there, treading water and letting his eyes grow accustomed the murk. He was in a circular pool, dammed in one place by a broad iron gate built into the wall in front of him; beyond, he could hear the constant gurgle and hiss of subterranean rivers all around.

     Maggie had already climbed out onto the stone embankment. She was now examining a chain that hung from the ceiling in front of the gate, and, as Loam saw it, appeared to be tensing her body in preparation for something.

     ‘What are you doing?’ he called up to her.

     She didn’t answer. Instead she took a running leap and gripped ahold of the chain, which dropped with a mechanical _clunk_ at once. Only too late did Loam realise what she’d done, and with a piteous sound he began to paddle in the opposite direction. It was no use. The gate lifted, and the pool became a roaring, churning torrent. Loam was sucked into the current and careened blindly about for several long and breathless moments, covering his head as the passage gave way to nothing and he free-fell for the second time — landing, at last, with a final, mighty splash.

     The girl appeared by his side some time after he had washed up on the flagstones. She gave him a careless kick in the side to rouse him, and Loam rolled onto his back with an agonised grunt.

     ‘Come on,’ she commanded. Her voice was like a boy’s: tough, but decidedly cute.

     Loam stumbled to his feet and followed after her, nursing his ribs with a resentful eye to her back. The chamber they were in was high and spacious, the passage of water passing east-to-west at the foot of a flight of stairs. In silence, they climbed it together. Before long, Loam could not help but notice the spiders’ webs stretched wide between stone columns — some as big across as tablecloths — but there was no life down here, only the dusty skulls of men and creatures long dead.

     ‘S’not too late to turn back, y’know,’ said Maggie unexpectedly.

     Loam chuckled, a weak sound in the stone cavern. ‘I appreciate you saying so,’ he replied. ‘But Red Leon’s right. Either I come home with what I set out to find, or I don’t come home at all.’

     They passed under an arch, into a dank tunnel. Loam matched her pace and chanced a sidelong glance in her direction, this little girl with the big attitude.

     ‘So, what’s your story?’ he ventured.

     She scowled and said nothing. He didn’t ask again. The tunnel opened up to a great granite hall, with pillars that towered over them both and a floor littered with broken masonry. It reminded Loam, somehow, of a tree’s roots underneath the earth, and he knew then that he was looking at the very foundations of Hyrule Castle. Maggie led him up and around a hazardous incline, arriving before long at a fissure in the wall barely wide enough for a dog to squeeze through. To Loam’s amazement, they emerged on the other side at the bottom of a tower, a spiral stair that wound its way up a central well for nearly a quarter of a mile.

     ‘Wow,’ he remarked, peering up into the gloom.

     Maggie was unmoved. ‘This is where I leave you,’ she said.

     He gave her a sharp look, feeling suddenly more afraid than he had all evening. ‘Oh,’ he croaked. ‘Okay.’

     For her part, the girl appeared testier than ever. Her eyes were fixed upon him in a deep glare, almost as if he had said or done something inexcusably rude.

     ‘You definitely don’t want to go back?’ she snapped.

     Loam was solemn. ‘It’s not a matter of wanting,’ he explained, and with a small wave of gratitude he mounted the first step and began to climb.

     He thought he caught the words ‘ _Your funeral_ ’ muttered under her breath, but when he turned around to look, she was gone.

     Up and up he climbed. Silver moonlight streamed through grated portholes every hundred yards, revealing places where the stair had crumbled away, and it was here he was forced to sidle along the wall or even leap over chasms, which did nothing for his nerves. By the time he had reached the top, he was sweating beneath his wet clothes, and felt leaden with exhaustion. The circular turret he found himself inside had a single iron door; pushing it open, he was forced to stifle a gasp at the sight that greeted him.

     The castle compound was gigantic, spread out before and beneath him, starkly black-and-white under the moon. A mild wind whistled in his ears but did not unbalance him, and a quick scan revealed that none of the parapets or causeways were manned by guards. That left only a straight journey across the top of a long tiled roof to the central tower, whose many windows glimmered invitingly, hinting at the life within, and the danger.

 

* * *

 

     The moment Loam entered the castle, he was struck by the absurdity of it all. Where, for example, was the throne room? He had climbed in through an open window and found himself in a candlelit corridor lined with wooden doors. Rich red carpet ran the length of it, disappearing down a winding stair to his left, and up a winding stair to his right, but neither were signposted, so how was he to know? Did the Queen sit on her throne at the top of the tower, looking down over her subjects? Or was she nearer the base, to be close to them? He decided, without a lot of confidence, to give her the benefit of the doubt. Though he was already a good distance from the ground, he headed left, still with his awkward bandy-legged gait, on tenterhooks at the prospect of meeting a guard — or a shadow.

     Down the stairs he crept, down and around, hating the fact that only a few feet of his path was visible to him at any one time. It wasn’t until he emerged at the head of a long landing that he encountered his first obstacle. The corridor was high and dark, with luxurious purple drapes that disappeared into the gloom of the ceiling’s eaves, and family portraits that towered over him in a line-up of serious faces. He had crossed only halfway along when the sound of footsteps two abreast carried up to his ears from the next flight down; a marching sound, edged with the faint jingle of chain mail.

     A thrill of horror sent Loam scrambling in no direction at all — he had come too far along the landing to escape back up the stairs in time, and the guards were approaching from the stairs ahead. Only at the final moment did it occur to him that he was standing in front of a rather large and decorative door. Unthinking, he wrenched it open and threw himself inside.

     Now he was in a beautiful bedroom, resplendent in shades of pink and lilac. A dying fire crackled in the hearth on the opposite wall, and by its light he saw two figures: an elderly lady in an armchair, her knitting in a loose ball between her knees as she dozed, and a small girl in an enormous four-poster bed, fast asleep amid a cluster of cushions. Loam had to chew his fist to stop himself from crying out in surprise, the thought of waking either of them too terrifying to contemplate. Behind the door, he could hear the guards come to a halt.

     ‘Time?’ said one.

     ‘Just gone on ten,’ said the other. ‘Better have a quick look inside.’

     Loam sucked in a breath, and rolled away from the wood panelling of the door just as it was pushed ajar. It stayed that way for a moment as the guard surveyed the room, before it closed lightly and their conversation resumed.

     ‘The old biddy’s nodded off,’ grunted the first with amusement.

     ‘Huh! Go figure. The sooner that bag of bones kicks the bucket, the sooner the Princess can make some friends her own age...’

     Astonishment and dismay came crashing over Loam with the realisation that _this was the Princess Zelda’s room._ There she lay, barely older than Wren and perfectly lovely, while he — a dirty, frantic stranger — hovered in the corner, cursing himself for ever thinking this was a good idea. The guards’ conversation continued, growing fainter along with their footsteps as they continued their patrol up the tower. After several minutes, Loam summoned the courage to slip out and keep on with his descent, leaving the Princess and her handmaid undisturbed.

     It felt like an age had passed by the time he appeared in the castle’s entrance hall. It was utterly vast, as high as a cathedral and spectacular in its ornamentation. Loam stood upon a mezzanine balcony and looked down over the red carpet that cut a path across a sea of polished tiles from the main entrance to another door…a beautiful gold-and-blue door as tall as ten men…

     … _the throne room._

     At first, his heart skipped a beat to see the hundred or so soldiers lined up on opposite sides of the carpet. When he realised they were only empty suits of armour, however, he let out a sigh of relief that actually became a chuckle. This was it, then. Patting his vest to ensure the joy pendant was in place, he turned to cross the gallery in the direction of the curved staircase — and froze.

     ‘Oh, no,’ he breathed.

     A figure blocked his path. It stood as still as the suits of armour, but was unmistakably alive, having only appeared when his back was turned. It wore black like a second skin, so that Loam could quickly discern that “it” was in fact a “she.” Above the balaclava that covered her nose and mouth, two ruby red eyes stared emotionlessly back at him. They were the most extraordinary eyes he had ever seen, and appeared to complement the bleeding-eye insignia emblazoned down her torso.

     ‘Listen,’ he said carefully. He held up his hands to indicate his defencelessness. ‘I know how this must look. But I need to see the Queen. I don’t mean any — _huah!’_

     It happened in a flash. One moment she was ten yards apart from him, the next her right foot was planted in his breastbone. Loam staggered, but she was behind him also, directing two precise kicks to the back of either knee, so that he was face-down on the floor before he even knew she’d attacked. A hand seized him roughly by the scruff, and with inhuman strength he was hurled across the way, slamming into the wall before landing in a heap on the carpet.

     ‘ _Gods,’_ he wheezed, pushing himself into a prostrate position with trembling arms.

     Looking up, he saw her approaching almost casually, trailing the cord of a long whip between her fingers. His mind awash with fear and confusion, and with the entrance to the throne room so maddeningly near, Loam cast all tact and delicacy by the wayside and charged at her with a wordless growl. The woman turned on a pivot, not even blinking her surprise, and let him crash into the balustrade. Like a boxer on the ropes, he threw his body back toward her and swung an aimless fist, which she caught in her open palm and proceeded to catapult him in a somersault over her shoulder. Loam coughed in agony, unable to decide where it hurt the most. Tears stung his eyes as he rolled off the floor into a stoop — he could not have looked more different to the sleek, unruffled figure who stood in his way, appraising him with those empty eyes. Fighting her was out of the question, of course. If Loam wanted to see the Queen, he was going to have to make a run for it.

     So he bolted for the stairs.

     She was in his way almost immediately, having sprung like a grasshopper clean over his head to hinder his escape. Loam did not even slow down. Crying out, he leapt onto the bannister and then again into oblivion, fully twenty feet above the entrance hall. With grasping hands, he seized ahold of the purple silk curtain that hung from ceiling to floor; it swung dangerously in its bracket, but Loam was able to slide down using just the tips of his fingers. Landing heavily, he took off down the red carpet in a frenzied dash toward his goal.

     Again, she was upon him, her footsteps light and balletic in his wake. Terrified and improvising, Loam toppled suits of armour as he passed them, hoping to slow her down, but she darted over the debris without even having to look. A ringing _crack_ cleft the air, and only too late did Loam discover his ankles had been bound together by coils of whip; unable even to shout, he ploughed headfirst into the ground, barely ten feet away from the throne room door. The shadow woman had him trussed up like a turkey; pulling fast on the whip to hold him in place, she drew a jewelled dagger from the sheath on her hip.

     ‘NO!’ roared Loam, thrashing around to face her.

     He seized the whip in both hands and yanked with all his might. For the first time, the woman’s red eyes widened, and she lurched forward, wrong-footed by his actions, drawing close enough for him to touch her. He took her throat roughly in both hands and rammed the crown of his head into her chin, causing her whole body to spasm, though she made not a sound. The knife fell from her hand; catching it, Loam cut his legs free and barged her aside. Nothing would stop him — _nothing._

     Plunging a hand inside his vest, Loam took hold of the joy pendant and barrelled into the throne room, screaming ‘I HAVE A JOY PENDANT!’ over and over again. ‘I HAVE A JOY PENDANT!’

     ‘I HAVE A — _HOAF!’_

     The shadow woman slammed bodily into him, causing the joy pendant, and his glasses, to sail out of sight. Loam continued to wail insensibly as she pinned him to the floor; with powerful thighs she kept him immobile, but she needn’t have bothered — Loam had simply run out of strength, and let the carpet muffle what would surely be his last words.

     ‘STOP THIS AT ONCE!’ cried a high, clear voice.

     The pressure that held him in place vanished immediately. Sensing that he was free to move, Loam pressed both palms to the floor and pushed himself, very slowly, onto his knees. The throne room resolved itself in his blurred line of sight, though it took him some time to make sense of what he saw.

     Beside him, his attacker had dropped to one knee with her head bowed in an attitude of submission. Ahead, on a raised dais, one dozen guards in splendid golden armour trained their spears on him, forming a barricade with their bodies around an older woman dressed in all manner of finery. She was on her feet, and her striking features were twisted into a mask of astonishment an outrage.

     ‘What is the meaning of this?’ she demanded.

     Silence. Silence that stretched on for an eternity, or so it felt to Loam. Words failed him; he felt small and broken, and could no longer remember why he was even here. So he waited for something to happen.

     A sound from behind the throne.

_Clap, clap, clap…_

     A pair of hands applauding.

     ‘Ha, ha, haaaa…’

     Laughter — male laughter — but who…?

     ‘Well done, my friend, well _done!’_

     Then a man in a hooded cloak the colour of blood appeared at the Queen’s side, clapping and laughing like he had just witnessed the performance of a lifetime. Loam blinked once, unable to believe what he was seeing.

     ‘Red Leon?’ he whispered hoarsely.

     ‘Only on my days off,’ said the other, still chuckling. ‘Around here, I’m known as _His Highness, Prince Daphnes Leonsen Harkinian Hyrule_.’

     And with pale fingertips, he drew back his hood to reveal his face.

 

 

 

 


	10. Palace Life

     ‘Daphnes?’ said the Queen. ‘What on earth is going on?’

     The Prince didn’t look at her, too consumed with pleasure to face away from the spectacle in front of him. ‘Everything is under control, mother,’ he assured her. ‘Whisper here was just attending my guest.’

     ‘By pinning him to the floor?’ she demanded.

     ‘An old Sheikah custom.’

     He left her there on the dais, shouldering past the wall of guards to stride over to where Loam still sat on his knees, blinking vacantly. Along the way he collected Loam’s glasses from the floor, and bent at the waist to slip them back onto the bridge of his nose with a look of obvious enjoyment.

     ‘Stand up, my friend,’ he encouraged.

     Loam stared at his outstretched hand for a long time. Beside him, the shadow stirred; he could sense her red eye on him, observing with cold interest from behind a hanging curtain of ink-black hair. His thoughts were slow and grey, like trickling mud, and apart from the vague sense that he ought to be outraged, his feelings were likewise oddly muted. He was bemused.

     ‘Red Leon?’ he repeated, trying to focus.

     The Prince grinned more broadly still. He was devilishly handsome, although light and delicate-looking, with porcelain skin, pointed features and crystalline blue eyes. Thick hair like spun gold framed his face, and fell almost to his shoulders at the back.

     ‘Yes,’ he laughed. ‘It’s me.’

     ‘You sent me through the dungeons,’ said Loam slowly. ‘Through the sewers.’

     ‘And you’ve done a spectacular job making it out the other end, may I be the first to say!’

     ‘You wasted my time,’ Loam went on. His voice was becoming clearer — and harder. ‘You wasted time I don’t have, instead of helping me.’

     ‘You’re wrong,’ said the Prince, his permanent smile taking on a patient air, like a parent. ‘The moment you disappeared down that hole, I returned here to the castle. I sent a messenger to retrieve a whole garrison of soldiers from the front lines in the western desert. I woke the royal smith and set him and his boys to work at the forge, preparing blades and shields for every man in Ordon Village. They’re down in the armoury as we speak, if you’d like to see for yourself. Loam, listen to me — are you listening? I’ve taken care of _everything_.’

     Loam felt something start to crumble inside of him. His head swam momentarily as he processed the information. Still, there was defiance.

     ‘I could have been killed,’ he croaked, with a nod to the shadow woman.

     ‘Not a chance,’ the Prince beamed. ‘Whisper was under strict instructions only to get in your way. Real intruders never even see her — they’re dead before they get the opportunity.’

     It was all too absurd.  

     ‘Why did you do this to me?’ Loam’s voice was so small it was almost a plea.

     ‘Because,’ said the Prince, and for a moment his startling eyes became avid and serious, ‘I needed to know that you had courage, Loam. I needed to know that you possessed the truest courage there is: the desperate, unthinking willingness to lay down your life for love. And you do.’ He burst out laughing once more, and seemed, bizarrely, on the verge of tears. ‘You really do! From now on, no matter what happens — and whether you like it or not! — I count you as my brother. Your quest is over, brother. Now, stand up!’

     There was nothing else for it. Loam took his hand, and rose heavily to his feet. The Prince clapped him on the shoulder. From his flowing robe, he produced the Ordon sword, still in its scabbard and bound up in its own leather belts.

     ‘Here,’ he said, placing it in Loam’s hands. ‘Take it, and with it the freedom of the castle. Whatever you ask, it shall be given you.'

     Loam thought about this, though not for very long.

     ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ he sighed, ‘I need a bath.’

 

* * *

 

     It was past midday when he stirred.

     Splendour surrounded him. The curtained four-poster on which he lay was a tangle of silk sheets and feather pillows under a quilt that warmed him like a cuddle. On the nightstand, a pitcher of water caught the band of sunlight that shone through the window, causing warm patterns to crisscross over the opposite wall.

     For a long time he lay still; staring, gathering himself, held in place by the comfort of the mattress and a deeper weariness than could be satisfied by rest. When he rose, he did so very gingerly, wincing at the stiffness up and down his body. He limped to the window and peered out, shielding his eyes against the glare with one hand as the castle compound came into focus. It was magnificent. Bushels of privet were planted in beds of earth around immaculate green lawns; ivy formed lush walls around stables and a keeper’s cottage; and a beautifully precise, symmetrical hedge maze framed a stone fountain, its many spouts at play around three golden goddesses.

     ‘Wow,’ murmured Loam.

     He was wearing a long white shift, his own clothes nowhere in sight. Instead, a blue tunic and cotton trousers were draped neatly over a three-panelled mirror in the corner, along with a pair of new brown boots on the floor beside. Loam stood before the reflections of himself and removed his shift, staring for some time at a body he barely recognised; lean and muscular as before, but with brilliant, angry bruises the colour of weak tea and storm clouds patterning his torso like a dungeon map.

     ‘Wow,’ he said again.

     But he said it with a tiny smile.

 

* * *

 

     ‘Three days,’ the Prince promised.

     Loam nodded, gratitude and disappointment vying for control of his face.

     ‘There’s nothing can be done, Loam. My forces are abroad. It will take my men three days to cross the land from the desert, even at speed. The moment they return, we leave for Ordon.’

     ‘I understand,’ said Loam. ‘And I’m forever in your debt. Um. Your highness.’

     The Prince flashed him a pained grin. ‘Please. Just “Red.”’

     ‘Red.’ It felt strange, but he asked no questions.

     ‘Now, walk with me. There is so much to be said.’

     And they walked, side-by-side, two men of near-equal height and age, through the castle’s many exquisite halls and corridors, and in the afternoon sunshine, around the ramparts that formed the perimeter. Red was full of questions — about village life, the forest, swordsmanship, and the threat that hung over Loam’s family and friends.

     ‘I am sorry,’ he said, rounding on Loam unexpectedly.

     They were standing outside the drawing room. Loam could hear gentle piano music coming from within. He blinked at the Prince, not knowing what to make of his apology.

     ‘For what?’

     ‘Grist is right,’ Red went on. ‘The monsters fled the desert only after my army invaded. It’s thanks to my decisions that you’re even in this predicament at all. But the Gerudo must be stopped.’

     A shadow crossed his face, even as he turned it to the setting sun that streamed through the high mullioned windows. He propped his elbows on the sill and looked out at the world, and was quiet in a way he hadn’t been all day.

     ‘Who are they?’ asked Loam from over his shoulder.

     ‘Thieves,’ said Red at length. ‘Murderers. Heathens. Call them what you like — they’re bad news for our world. “History shows, and legend tells,” as Cojiro himself might say. My ancestors tried to broker a peace accord with them, once upon a time, but it fell apart after a Demon King rose up from their ranks and brought the whole of Hyrule to the brink of destruction.’ He laughed then, a soft, bitter thing. ‘That dark man would plague this green land for generations. But his kind were dealt with quickly. They haven’t been seen by anyone for many hundreds of years.’

     Loam thought better than to ask where they went, or why they had returned. He processed the information carefully, and tried to imagine the kind of power it would take to conquer and destroy the whole world.

     ‘I ascend the throne in the summer,’ Red continued, a little uncertainly, ‘after I come of age. My mother will step down as Queen — she was only ever Regent, after my father died — and all of the responsibilities of this kingdom will pass to me. She gave me early command of the army, but, when the Gerudo took the Arbiter’s Grounds last year. My generals presented me with plans for a campaign to purge them forever. They said it’s what my father would have wanted — and I agree with them.’

     He seemed to draw strength from his own words, and stood up to look Loam full in the face as the other moved to be by his side.

     ‘It will be a successful war, and a quick one,’ he assured Loam, his handsome face ablaze in the orange light. ‘You’ll see.’

     The piano music had stopped, and a moment later the door to the drawing room opened. A small girl poked her head through, her flaxen hair bound up in a shiny plait. The moment she saw the Prince, she broke into an ecstatic sprint.

     ‘Leon!’ she cried.

     ‘Zelda!’

     She leapt into his arms and he bundled her into a tight embrace, before sitting her in the crook of his elbow and turning to face Loam.

     ‘Precious sister, this is our new friend, Loam,’ he told her.

     The girl appraised Loam shyly through eyes the colour of her brother’s, though somehow bigger and even more luminous. ‘Hullo, Loam.’

     Loam was smiling. ‘Hi, Princess. Good to meet you.’

     ‘Good to meet you, too.’

     He tried to force the memory of his intrusion into her bedroom from his mind, and instead explored the odd sensation that pricked at his heart all of a sudden — a lonely, anxious feeling tied inextricably to Wren. Fresh worry coursed through his veins; a sense of being trapped and paralysed in his luxurious surroundings, while the people he loved the most lived in terror — if they even lived at all.

     Red seemed to sense the change in Loam’s demeanour. He set the Princess down and caressed her face in both hands.

     ‘Go and get ready for supper, my love,’ he whispered, and obediently she took off back towards the door, where a stooped old woman stood waiting and smiling.

     ‘Sorry for that,’ sighed Loam, after they’d gone. ‘Just…’

     ‘I know,’ said Red, averting his eyes out of respect. ‘It’s all right. Come.’

     He clasped Loam’s shoulder, and together they continued walking.

 

* * *

 

     It was the afternoon of the second day, and Loam and the Prince were in the training yard.

     ‘Handy with a blade, then, are you?’ challenged the Prince.

     Loam shot him a game grin, and drew the Ordon Sword from its sheath with a clear ring of steel.

     ‘I know a thing or two,’ he replied modestly.

     Red chuckled, and produced a blade of his own — a silver rapier, a needle as long as Loam’s own arm. ‘Perhaps you do,’ he said. ‘Perhaps. _On guard!’_

     He thrust the blade at Loam, who deftly deflected it with the flat of his own. Tensed and ready, they circled around a point, studying the other’s strafing gait, his posture, the way he turned his weapon in his hand. Then they engaged, and the experience was electrifying.

     The Prince’s footwork was superb. He darted and spun, having perfect control on where his feet were to land, and slashing with his sword like a master painter at the height of his powers. Loam had never been so thrilled by swordplay — it was no longer math, like it was with the Ordon boys, but dance; something beautiful, something terrifying. They laughed, even as they took brazen risks, and bright sparks rained out from where steel struck steel. From the stables, Apona watched them with disinterest, chewing languorously on grains and straw. Just as Red had Loam cornered among a pile of crates, he overstepped and became unbalanced for a fraction of a second — enough time for Loam to strike the rapier from his hand and raise his own sword for the final blow.

     He had only meant to touch the Prince’s shoulder with the tip of the blade, but was denied the opportunity. Something like a rush of wind blew past him, and Loam found himself lifted from his feet and thrown against the wooden crates, where he remained, hanging four inches off the ground by the sleeves of his tunic. It took him several stunned moments to realise what had happened: two diamond-shaped throwing knives had pinned him there, leaving him to dangle uselessly with his mouth agape.

     ‘Whoa!’ cried Red, who quickly grasped the situation after a few seconds spent looking as Loam did.

     He turned on the spot and held out both hands, just a figure dressed all in black appeared from the shadows, carrying another throwing knife in her hand. Her red eyes were smouldering over the mask that concealed the rest of her face.

     ‘Stand down, Whisper!’ he cautioned her.

     She glared at Loam, though her head was bowed. ‘He was about to strike,’ she said in an undertone.

     ‘Of course he was!’ laughed the Prince. ‘He disarmed me! But he wasn’t about to draw blood, were you, Loam?’

     ‘No!’ gasped Loam. ‘No, absolutely not, I would — I would never —’

     ‘There, see?’ He drew near to her, and his own voice became quite low, enough that Loam had to strain to hear. ‘You’re too vigilant sometimes, my lady of the Sheikah.’

     Then he pressed his mouth to her ear and said something Loam could not make out at all. The shadow woman nodded slightly, averting her eyes from the Prince, closing them for a moment. When they opened, they were empty of emotion, and blinked at Loam once as if to apologise. Red was smiling when he turned back to face his friend, and did not observe her as she melted into the shadows.

     ‘You’ll have to forgive Whisper,’ he chuckled. ‘She can be a little protective.’

     ‘That’s okay,’ said Loam, his own chuckle rather weak. ‘Uh…can you let me down, please?’

 

* * *

 

     ‘She’s the last of her kind, that we know of,’ Red explained.

     Night had fallen, and he and Loam sat on chintz armchairs in the moonlight, sharing a bottle of wine.

     ‘The year before I was born, my father sent his forces to crush the bulbin horde in the north. He succeeded, but got more than he bargained for — through a gap in the rock, he found a passage to a hidden village, a shanty town, which the bandits had been using as a hideout. It was totally deserted, of course…except for a tiny shack, under deadbolt, at the farthest end. When he broke inside, who should greet him but a newborn baby, wrapped up in the clothes of an old woman and bearing the bleeding-eye mark of the _Sheikah.’_

     He shook his head, still amazed by his own story.

     ‘They were a race,’ he went on slowly, ‘a death cult of incredible power, bound by order of the gods to serve as protectors of the bearers of light — my family. Like the Gerudo, they disappeared, went extinct, long ago. War, abuse, heartbreak…a dark history for a dark people. So you can imagine my father’s delight to see the line begin afresh under his reign. He called her a gift, and a miracle. As soon as she could walk and talk, she was put to work learning the ways of her own ancient tribe.’

     Loam was utterly fascinated. ‘Well, she’s very good at what she does,’ he offered.

     ‘Isn’t she, though?’ the Prince agreed, grinning. It remained on his face for a moment, before slipping away. He looked solemn as he observed the white-blue castle around them, and the glittering canvas of stars above. ‘When I’m King, it’ll be my duty to dismiss her from this place, send her out into the world.’

     ‘What? Why?’

     ‘Father’s orders. Before he died, he wrote a decree that Whisper should be sent on a quest to find others of her kind when she was old enough to do so. He reasoned that if the gods had given her as a gift to Hyrule, then they would gift her with a mate to carry on the shadow line.’

     ‘I see,’ said Loam. He sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘Well. I guess that makes sense.’

     ‘Mm.’

     They were quiet for a time.

     ‘I’ll miss her,’ said Red. He was peering down into his glass with a hard look in his eyes. ‘I’ll miss her a great deal. We’ve always been close. And she’s a faithful confidant. Only Whisper knows about my involvement with the Resistance…’

     Loam set his glass to one side, and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

     ‘I’d been meaning to ask about that,’ he said. ‘Why are you even a part of it? How did it happen?’

     Red was dismissive. ‘It’s not complicated. When I looked to my own ranks, I saw that there were none who truly loved Hyrule — not as my father loved it — and I became determined to gather to me those who did. I began to roam the streets of Castle Town at night in disguise. One evening, I encountered Cojiro in Telma’s Bar, and bought him a drink in exchange for some local history. He told me about his own father’s involvement in the first Resistance, back during the Twilight War, and I proposed that we carry on his legacy.’

     He fixed Loam with a sad smile.

     ‘Grist joined soon afterward, and Maggie after that. Lady Rahala we found desperately wounded on the banks of Lake Hylia. She had overheard two conspirators from among her own people, plotting to murder the Zora King, Ralis. We gave her potion, raced to Zora’s Domain, and stopped the assassination in time — luckily.’

     ‘And they’ve never suspected you?’ wondered Loam.

     ‘My true identity, you mean? No. I count them as true friends, but it can never go both ways.’

     He drained his glass in a single gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

     ‘It’s late,’ he sighed. ‘We must be getting on. Tomorrow, we’ll have everything we need to march on Faron Woods and rescue your people.’

     ‘Yeah,’ said Loam. Hope pulsed through him, making him restless. ‘I can hardly believe it.’

     ‘Believe it, friend,’ said Red, as he stood to his feet. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

     ‘Goodnight, Red,’ said Loam.

     He watched the Prince disappear inside, but remained where he was, drinking fine wine in the moonlight and reflecting on his adventure. He imagined strolling through a forest meadow with Raya by his side, seeing her bright eyes light up with wonderment, her nose wrinkle with happy laughter. Excitement warmed him. But he thought, too, of the places he had not been, the places he had only heard described in stories by Red and Cojiro, and another kind of longing, a sharp pang of it, muddied his feelings and caused him to shift uncomfortably in his armchair.

     Across the courtyard, midway up the western tower, firelight appeared through the windows of the Prince’s bedroom. Loam observed it with detached interest, then did a double-take: a shadow was prowling up the tower’s stone face like a spider, moving with the grace and ease of an evening stroll in the direction of the Prince’s balcony. Loam got up from his chair and retreated from the moonlight to watch in secret, wondering if he should raise the alarm. It wasn’t until the shadow crept onto the balcony and stood in the ring of firelight there that he relaxed — it was merely the Sheikah girl, Whisper.

     Sure enough, the Prince appeared before her, looking satisfied, expectant…

     …and wearing nothing at all.

 _‘What?’_ hissed Loam to himself, wide-eyed with astonishment.

     The two of them disappeared into Red’s chambers, leaving Loam completely agog in the shadows across the way.

 _He did say they were close,_ he reasoned. Then, more forcefully: _And it’s none of my business._

     Blinking rapidly, he recovered his senses. ‘It’s none of my business,’ he said out loud, for emphasis.

     Even as he said it, he felt his heart break for his new friend. _“It’ll be my duty to dismiss her from this place,”_ Red had said. _“Send her out into the world…gift her with a mate…”_

     The tragedy of it was profound. He understood now why Red had become so sombre during their discussion about her, and wished there was something he could do.

     And then, just like that, the screaming began.

 

 


	11. Veiled Threats

****

_Girl. Small. Zelda. Run._

     These were Loam’s precise thoughts. Distantly, he heard the bottle of wine smash apart against the flagstones as he took off at a sprint, drawing his sword as if in a dream; a troubling dream in which winding stairs passed him by five-at-a-time and the screaming, the _screaming_ , was ever-present, a constant, keening wail of terror and distress. The castle roused itself in his peripheral vision — candles, lanterns, protesting voices, scrambling boots — but Loam would not be sidetracked. The tip of his blade acted as a compass needle, guiding him steadily in his airless, weightless dash to the Princess’ quarters. In moments he was at the door, where the screaming was the loudest, and without pause to assess the danger to himself, he burst through and drew up short.

     Only on the second try could he make sense of the sight that greeted him.

     The Princess Zelda’s handmaiden lay cowering on the hearth rug, her shaking, mottled hands outstretched, either to shield her own face or to reach uselessly for the girl who stood by the open window in a pretty blue nightie, a gleaming sword held to the side of her neck. Zelda angled her face away from it, eyes clenched shut and streaming tears, her screams reduced to hard, shrill gasps in the ringing silence.

     Three identical figures stood frozen at the scene. Two of them flanked the window either side, the first holding the Princess hostage, the second carrying a pair of enormous silver scimitars that shone in the moonlight. The third stood on the window sill above them all, casting a long shadow into the room that enveloped Loam completely. In form, they were shapeless lumps, like bales of hay. For a moment he guessed them to be monsters, but realisation quickly set in: these were coverings — veils — some kind of brown woven cloaks with a slit across the face for the eyes. He could see elaborate patterning at the hem, and a stylised pair of crescent moons across the chest. Whoever they were, they carried with them a palpable smell: of animal, of spices, of distant lands hot and exotic and —

     ‘Gerudo,’ he breathed.

     ‘Very good, boy,’ said a woman’s voice.

     ‘Let her go.’

     ‘That,’ said the voice, ‘would be a dreadful waste of our talents.’

     ‘Please let her go.’

     ‘Manners are important, true, but still, no. Tell me, where is the Prince? For I greatly desire to speak with him about his war...’

     The answer came in a sudden commotion of boots and chain mail. Palace guards swarmed the corridor and flooded the room, shouting orders and oaths back and forth. They resolved into line behind Loam, their spear tips directed at the figures on the far side.

     _‘Get out of my way!’_ roared a voice through the door.

     Loam turned to see Red elbowing his way past the guards, his bright eyes wild and dangerous-looking. He wore cotton trousers, but nothing more, and was brandishing his rapier with murderous intent. Behind him, the Sheikah girl, Whisper, had produced her twin throwing knives, though from where Loam couldn’t say: she was wearing just a bedsheet, her fierce and beautiful face exposed to him for the first time.

     Red burst through and crossed the room in three strides, standing in front of Loam while Whisper kept to the shadows, drinking in the scene through eyes like smouldering coals.

     ‘Ah, my sweet Prince!’ said the voice from the middle figure. ‘At last we meet. I do hope I’m not interrupting —’

     ‘Unhand my sister, desert slut,’ said Red, as forceful as a slap. ‘Let her go, and I promise you, you and your scorpion friends will leave this castle in one piece.’

     ‘A kind offer, to be sure, and not without temptation,’ said the woman, whose velvety voice mixed boredom and amusement together like molten chocolate, ‘but I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, highness. You see, I’m calling the shots tonight. And here are my terms: call back your dogs from the desert and leave my sisters be, and we will see to it that your own sister comes to no harm.’

     ‘I am not answerable to _savages_!’ hollered the Prince. In his defiance, he sounded almost gleeful. ‘Hooligans in mud huts who mock the laws of my land do not get to dictate terms to its ruler.’

     ‘That was most unkind,’ she said softly. The hairs on the back of Loam’s neck stood on end. Somehow, it was the most dangerous combination of words he had ever heard. 'You've gone and hurt my feelings now...' 

     ‘Show me your face!’ Red suddenly shouted. ‘You, with your smooth words. Or are you so grotesque that you can’t stand for men to look upon you?’

     Loam winced. _What is he doing?_

     ‘You wish to see me uncovered?’ There was a coy titter behind her words now. ‘With your own lover watching from the shadows? Precious Prince, you shame yourself. Why, you are no less debauched than we! Still, why not? I’ve always thought it the _honourable_ thing to look into the face of your adversary, even if it’s your custom to lay around in luxury while your soldiers do the dirty work. So —’

     A dark hand appeared from behind the fold of the cloak and seized hold of one shoulder. With a flourish and a rush, it vanished out the window, leaving a woman’s form in its place — a woman of such shocking and outrageous beauty that the whole of the room drew breath as one.

     Loam was staggered by her. She was tall and athletic, with a flat stomach, high breasts, and impossibly long legs. A midriff-bearing silk blouse and floaty, transparent trousers in shades of pink and white revealed only flawless, golden-brown skin from head to bare foot. Thick locks of fire-coloured hair were bound by jewelled clasps into waist-length ponytails. A circlet with a ruby at its centre rested above her eyes — eyes the colour of dusk and honey; mischievous, shrewd, playful, deadly eyes that looked down over the room as regally as any queen. She blew them all a dainty kiss with white painted lips, and winked.

     Loam could not see Red’s reaction, but could easily imagine it.

     ‘Who are you?’ hissed Red.

     ‘I,’ she said plainly, ‘am Fierra. I am the leader of my tribe. We have come back to reclaim our birthright, and we would like to do so without interference, from you or anyone. Now, I will ask you one more time: will you withdraw your forces from the West?’

     ‘Never,’ he spat.

     ‘Very well.’ She looked to her right, where Princess Zelda stood frozen in her captor’s embrace. ‘Vigoor?’

     The blade that had hovered an inch above the girl’s throat came gently down and began to pass from left to right, leaving a trail of beading blood in its wake. Zelda’s response was immediate. She began to gasp and shriek rapidly, wanting to struggle but unable to move. The whole room seemed to lurch forward, Loam included, when the unthinkable happened.

 _‘NO!’_ screamed the Prince, so loud that his voice broke and became as high-pitched as his sister’s.

     He threw his sword into the corner and collapsed onto his knees, prostrating himself before his enemy with shaking hands raised in surrender. ‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Please, no. Please. Let-let her go, I’ll do anything…anything you ask…’

     Loam looked down at him, uncomprehending, mouth agape. Red’s cocky, aggressive demeanour had shattered like a crystal goblet, and now here he was, laid out and snivelling, rendered hysterical at the sight of his sister’s suffering. Fierra held up a hand, and the blade came away from Zelda’s neck. The cut was an inch long.

     ‘The Prince of Red Lions talks a good game,’ she declared coldly. ‘But one has only to _scratch_ the surface to expose the coward underneath.’

     ‘Please,’ he sobbed. ‘Please, let her go. Don’t hurt her, I beg you…please…’

     ‘I’m embarrassed for you,’ said Fierra over his pleading and whimpering. ‘You’re embarrassing us all. _’_

     ‘Give her back,’ he croaked feebly. ‘Give her back to me, please…’

     Fierra examined her fingernails. ‘No, I don’t think I will,’ she sighed. ‘Not now. Not after you were such a boor.’

     ‘I’ll withdraw from the desert,’ he went on. ‘Isn’t that what you want? I’ll call all my troops home, I-I promise.’

     ‘See that you do. But still — mmm, no. No, it’s very important that we hold onto the Princess now. You see, there’s a lesson must be learned here, my liege. About pride. Compromise. Seeing reason, while there’s still time. Personally, I think it will do you a world of good. And you mustn’t fret! Your sister will grow up in our care — will grow up strong and gifted and beautiful and lethal — a Gerudo jewel. An everlasting reminder for you to think twice before poking around where you haven’t any business.’

     ‘ _Don’t!_ ’ he wailed. Loam could see the muscles clench in his long, smooth back and arms. ‘Don’t take her, please, I beg you. Take — take me instead!’

     There was a sudden movement in the shadows, though a brief one. Crimson eyes flashed dangerously, mirrored in the blade of a dagger.

     The corners of Fierra’s mouth merely twitched. She examined him, supremely disdainful, and considered a moment.

     ‘But what is this?’ she murmured. ‘Sacrifice? How very moving. Perhaps I’ve misjudged you, after all. Yourself…in place of your sister…?’

     ‘Please…’

     She arched an eyebrow, then bent at the waist to place her hands on her knees, addressing him as one would a household pet.

     ‘Would that bring you less pain?’ she whispered.

     Red sat up on his knees and was silent, though his shoulders shook. He seemed unable to answer, unable to play her game. After a time, he nodded his head. Fierra stood up straight, looking satisfied.

     ‘Then it’s settled,’ she smiled warmly, holding her palms out to the room. She looked over the top of his head, straight into Loam’s own eyes. ‘Don’t follow us,’ she advised, and with a whip of her ponytails, the windowpane was empty.

     ‘No,’ groaned Red.

     The second Gerudo vanished in a single bound, leaving only Zelda and her captor in their midst.

     ‘ _No_ …’

     ‘Brother?’ squeaked the Princess. She looked utterly terrified, her crystalline eyes shining, beseeching him.

     Then a dark hand slithered under her armpits, bundling her off her feet. The shapeless form of Fierra’s lieutenant turned on a pivot and vaulted after her sisters, leaving only a glimmer of tears like stars in her wake.

_‘NOOOOOOOOO!’_

     The Prince’s agonised wail rang out like a trapped animal. He fell to one side, paralysed and inconsolable, as Loam raced to the window to watch their escape. He was shoved roughly out of the way by Whisper, who looked very much like someone preparing to leap out of the window after them.

     ‘Wait!’ cried Loam. ‘Whisper, _wait!’_

     He seized the hem of the bedsheet she had wrapped around herself. It came unravelled without resistance, and the last thing Loam saw was the back of her naked body as she dived, knives-first, from the tower into the moonlight. Still clutching the empty sheet in both hands, he peered over the side and gazed down at the fifty-foot drop into darkness. Faint sounds of steel on steel and the forceful grunting of women’s voices reached his ears.

     ‘Go, now!’ bellowed the captain of the guard.

     The company scurried out of the room, leaving Loam alone with Red and the Princess’ handmaiden. The old woman’s sobs were drowned out by the Prince’s, who clung to Zelda’s curtained four-poster liked he’d washed up there, his handsome face a twisted mask of pain.

      ‘Red,’ murmured Loam, dropping to one knee to seize his friend by the shoulders. ‘Red, listen to me.’

     ‘ _They took her,’_ said the other, weeping openly. ‘I had the chance to save her, and now she’s gone…’

     ‘Red, it’s going to be all right,’ said Loam. He could see his own hands shaking in the white moonlight. ‘Red? Red, look at me. We have to — we-we’ve got to —’

 _‘No!_ ’ roared the Prince. He bunched the front of Loam’s tunic into a tight fist, baring his teeth at him. ‘Loam! She’s gone…’

     Grief of the deepest, bleakest kind poured over him then, and he melted to the floor.

     ‘She’s gone.’

 

 


	12. Counteroffensive

     Devastation settled over the castle like a noxious mist.

     In the throne room, the Queen was curled into the foetal position in the arms of her lady-in-waiting, a big, matronly woman with kind eyes. Sobs racked her whole body, dry and bitter things that echoed up into the darkness of the eaves. The captain of her Golden Guard looked on, holding his helmet by his side and looking grim. His men had not caught up with the Gerudo — but Whisper had.

     She pursued Zelda’s abductors to the south gate and engaged one in mortal combat, still without a stitch of clothing on her body. The victory was quickly hers: she opened the woman’s throat with both daggers in a scissor-like finishing blow, while sustaining only a couple of scratches in return. Only too late did she realise her mistake — the battle had been a stall tactic, a feint, and by the time she resumed the chase the other bandits were long gone with their treasure.

     Loam stood beside her now, on the steps of the raised dais. She was fully dressed, of course, in her ink-black second skin, grey bandaging and face mask. He glanced at her eyes. They looked like dark storm clouds over a burning world. Her whole body was taut with rage as she gazed up at the Prince, who was slumped low on the throne with his face in his hands, a portrait of misery and pain. It was the bleakest scene Loam had ever beheld. He felt wretched.

     ‘ _Gone,’_ whimpered the Queen, choking on her words. ‘My baby...’

     Her bloodshot stare locked accusingly on Whisper.

_‘How could you let this happen?’_

     ‘Leave off!’ snapped Red suddenly. It was the first thing he had said for hours. ‘Whisper’s not the one at fault—’

     ‘She’s the Royal Protector!’ cried the Queen, her voice high and cracked. ‘If she’s not at fault here, who is? What was she doing when they took her? Where was she when they _slithered into my daughter’s bedroom_ —’

     ‘ _She can’t be everywhere at once!’_ Red thundered, lurching to his feet. ‘ _IT’S A BIG BLOODY CASTLE!’_

     Whisper was quiescent as mother and son raged on in front of her, though Loam could see the rise and fall of her chest, could sense the immensity of the shame and anguish that churned within her like a nest of serpents. He wanted to reach out a comforting hand for her shoulder, but did not trust that he would get it back.

     ‘Majesty,’ she interjected without warning. All eyes fell upon her as she knelt before the Queen with head bowed, so that her black hair gathered on the carpet in a glossy pool. ‘The fault is mine. I was —’ (Loam and Red stiffened in unison, awaiting her terrible confession with wide eyes) ‘— off my guard,’ she finished, wavering only slightly. ‘I have disgraced myself and brought shame upon my line. That the Princess is not with us tonight is the direct result of my error. Please, by your leave … let me go to the desert and bring her back myself. I failed you once. I will not fail you again.’

     Red looked appalled by her words.

     ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he said acidly. ‘Not to that hive, not by yourself. All of my forces couldn’t break through their front lines. They’d kill you — and Zelda into the bargain, just for trying.’

     His face crumpled, then, and all of the colour he had taken on throughout the argument drained away. He looked weak and drawn, and shuffled back to sit on the throne.

     ‘I’ll call them back,’ he decided, pressing his knuckles to his mouth and staring away into space. ‘My forces. I’ll call them back. Captain — ready a courier. Send word to the General that our campaign is over. The Gerudo are to be left in peace.’

     The captain looked discomfited, but did not comment. He bowed at the waist, and departed.

     ‘They may yet have mercy,’ Red mused to himself, as an afterthought.

     Quiet descended over the room again, punctuated by the Queen’s intermittent gasps of pain. Loam could take no more. He cleared his throat.

     ‘Is there really nothing we can do?’

     ‘There’s nothing _you_ can do,’ said Red plainly. ‘Nor I, nor she. Nor anyone else here. So, no. There’s nothing we can do.’

     ‘What about the others?’ Loam ventured.

     Red frowned. ‘What others?’

     ‘Our friends.’ He gave the Prince a candid look. ‘Our friends in the Resistance?’

     A moment’s realisation passed across Red’s face and was wiped away by a look of tired dismissal. He stood to his feet and stepped down to be beside Loam, draping an arm over his shoulders and walking them both toward the exit.

     ‘They’re not my friends, Loam,’ he said morosely. ‘Weren’t you listening earlier? Any love they bear for me rightfully belongs to their phantom leader — the one they call Red Leon. If I were to reveal my true identity, they would be disgusted by my deceit. They wouldn’t help me. They’d abandon me.’

     He pushed through the heavy oaken door, and together they came to a standstill in the entrance hall.

     ‘And frankly,’ he added with a small, sick smile, ‘that would be more than my heart could bear on a night like tonight.’

     The two young men looked one another full in the face. Red considered his friend for a moment, before clapping a hand on the side of Loam’s neck fondly.

     ‘You needn’t worry,’ he said. ‘Sunrise is only a couple of hours away. The garrison will join us in time for breakfast. They will accompany you back to Ordon, and scour your village of its monstrous host forever. All of this —’ (he gestured back at the scene of his mother’s grief) ‘—needn’t concern you at all. But I am sorry you had to see me this way, my friend. I had rather hoped to make a good impression on you.’

     His hand slid from Loam’s neck, and he turned to walk away in despair. Loam watched him mount the stairs, saw the burden of defeat weighing down his shoulders. Pity like he had never felt in his life cleft his heart wide open. A decision was reached in the blink of an eye.

     ‘Red,’ he called, on the tenth step. His voice reverberated around the dark sanctuary, so that echoes of himself seemed to come to his aid from all corners. ‘I’m going into town right now. I’m going to find Cojiro — Grist, Maggie, Lady Rahala. If they can help, I’ve gotta know. I don’t care what you think they’ll say. They love Hyrule like you love Hyrule. Do you know what that means? It means they’d happily give their lives for your sister — and for you.’

     Red was still. He listened without turning around, seemed frozen in place by the tumult inside his own mind. Loam sighed.

     ‘Send the garrison to Ordon without me,’ he requested sadly. ‘Tell them to give my love to my family: Colin, Wren, Raya, my mother — even Bartl. Let them know I’m safe, and that I’ll see them again…but also that, as long as I’m alive, I’ll be doing all I can to bring the Princess home. That’s the work of the Resistance.’

_That’s the work of a hero,_ whispered Colin’s voice, from someplace far and dim.

     Then he turned away without another word, and departed into the misty pre-dawn.

 

* * *

  _  
_

     It was chilly in the square. Guttering torches illumined empty store windows, but the lanes and alleys that branched away in all directions were dark, except for where patrols of night watchmen passed through in a straight line. Loam stopped one on the West Road, hugging himself and stamping his feet against the cold.

     ‘I’m looking for a man, name of Cojiro,’ he told the head of the line. ‘Do you know where he lives?’

     ‘Bit late for a house call, innit?’ said the soldier skeptically. ‘Can’t it wait till sunup?’

     ‘ _Do you know where I can find him?’_ Loam pressed.

     ‘Never met a Cojiro. Ask around when it’s light, why don’t you? Come on, lads…’

     They filed past him in lockstep, content to leave him in the dark. The soldier at the rear, however, slowed to a marching halt, letting his fellows carry on back in the direction of the square without him.

     ‘You Loam, then?’ he muttered.

     Loam blinked at him in surprise. ‘I am,’ he said cautiously.

     ‘Yeah, figured as much. You match the description.’

     ‘Whose description?’

     ‘Maggie’s, innit! She said to keep an eye out for a goggly, gawky country boy — and no offence, mate, but that’s you to a T. Now, I don’t know where this Cojiro bloke is, but maybe she does. You can find her on the East Road, second lane along from the apothecary. Look for the picture of a Cuccoo egg on the door.’

     Loam’s face split into a disbelieving grin.

     ‘Thank you,’ he breathed. ‘Thanks very much!’

     ‘Careful not to wake her, though, eh?’ said the watchman over his shoulder. ‘She’s a testy one at the best of times.’

     Loam raced to the house the man had described. It was in a particularly shabby corner of town, right in the shadow of the immense eastern wall and practically squashed in between two larger homes on either side. But to Loam’s amazement, both of the upstairs windows shone with flickering candlelight. He strode to the door, with its Cuccoo egg emblazoned around the knocker in peeling white paint, and rapped his knuckles hard against the wood.

     A commotion on the other side; footsteps on creaky stairs — more than one pair. He heard hushed voices debating sharply for a moment, before the door swung wide, revealing Cojiro’s face framed on all sides by the rest of the Resistance. At first, there was only astonished silence. Then:

_‘Loam?’_ cried Cojiro. ‘Is it really you?’

     ‘It’s me,’ said Loam, laughter playing at his lips. ‘I’m here, I’m fine—’

     ‘But, by gods, we were worried senseless!’ laughed the older man, sweeping Loam inside. ‘Three days, and we’ve not seen hair nor hide of you! We feared the worst…’

     But Loam hardly heard him. He was being passed from friend to friend, taking both of the Lady Rahala’s hands in greeting and being roughly bundled into a headlock by Grist. Even Maggie looked warily pleased, though she offered neither word nor hand.

     ‘I’m really okay,’ Loam insisted, when at last he was free to speak. ‘There’s so much I have to tell you.’

     ‘Well, sit down, dear boy, sit down!’ said Cojiro. ‘Grist, bring bread and water. Loam, come…’

     The four of them sat at a small, battered table, Grist joining them presently with food and drink for one. Seeing their eager faces, Loam felt a rush of affection that was almost an ache.

     ‘Were you able to meet with the Queen?’ wondered Lady Rahala.

     ‘I was—’

     ‘How did you get past the guards?’ Grist marvelled.

     ‘Well—’

     ‘And what of the deadly shadow?’ demanded Maggie.

     ‘People, please!’ laughed Cojiro in exasperation. ‘Excuse us, won’t you, Loam? We really have been anxious to know your fate, and it’s just… _such_ a relief to have you back. Now: why not take it from the top, eh?’

     Loam gave him an appreciative grin. ‘Thanks, Cojiro. It’s great to see you all again.’

     He took a deep breath, and for the first time felt the gravity of the revelation he was about to lay down before them. In his mind, he organised the narrative from the moment he arrived in the main tower to the kidnapping of the Princess mere hours ago, and tried his best not to imagine their impending reactions. But at that very moment, just as he opened his mouth to begin, there was a knock at the door.

     The five of them exchanged troubled glances, before Grist rose to his full and tremendous height, and circled the table to answer. ‘Who is it?’ he inquired gruffly.

     ‘Red Leon,’ said the voice on the other side, and Loam felt his heart leap.

     The others expressed their delight as Grist threw open the door.

     ‘What perfect timing!’ cheered Cojiro, half-rising from his chair. ‘Look who it is, Red — young Loam, safely returned in one piece!’

     Red crossed the threshold into the living room, wearing his characteristic hooded cloak, his fingers steepled like a priest. Loam watched him intently, unsure of what was about to happen.

     ‘So it is,’ said Red. Then: ‘I suppose he’s told you everything?’

     ‘He was just about to start,’ said Lady Rahala. ‘Won’t you sit down?’

     ‘No. No, I’m afraid we haven’t the time.’

     Grist furrowed his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’

     ‘While I’m confident Loam’s tale is a thrilling one,’ Red continued heavily, ‘allow me to cut straight to the punch line.’

     Then, without another word, he drew back his hood to reveal his face. It was pale and grim and looked older than his eighteen years, but there was no mistaking it: standing before them was the future King of Hyrule.

 


	13. Shadow's Reasons

     It was a long time before anybody spoke.

     The Prince looked at them all, one after the other, his expression austere, registering each thunderstruck face as though confirming the worst for himself. Loam watched them also, and wanted desperately to break the silence, to explain to the room the meaning of it all. He stood, but did not speak. It was Red himself who decided to proceed.

     ‘Thank you for not bowing,’ he deadpanned. ‘I don’t think my heart could bear it.’

     ‘Prince Daphnes,’ said Cojiro hoarsely. ‘Prince — _you’re the Prince!_ ’

     ‘And so I am, my friend.’

     ‘You tricked us,’ said Grist. It was difficult to tell if he was angry, or merely observant.

     Red shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. I’ve been your hooded and robed leader for the better part of eighteen months now, have I not? And we masked types are nothing if not secretive. I rather thought you’d all come to terms with the likelihood of my having a double identity.’

     ‘Yes, but-but…the _Prince?’_ sputtered Cojiro.

     Red fixed him with a doleful gaze.

     ‘Cojiro,’ he said heavily, ‘I’m sorry. I had wanted to tell you — since the earliest days, I wanted to tell you. But I was afraid…’ He looked at the floor. ‘I didn’t trust you to carry on as before once you knew the truth. I thought the candour we enjoyed as friends would disappear the moment you found out.’

     ‘ _Candour!’_ cried Grist, turning red above his beard. ‘All those things I said about the Prince — about _you —’_

_‘_ —were exactly what I needed to hear!’ insisted Red, gesturing adamantly. ‘Don’t you see? All my life I’ve been surrounded by sycophants — politicians and yes-men who would sooner die than speak plainly to me. I craved the honesty of firm friends…even if I could never truly be a friend to you.’

     His voice trailed off, and he seemed to sway slightly, fresh grief stirred up by his own words. Loam glanced at Lady Rahala, who looked back at him with serious eyes.

     ‘Did you know about this?’ she asked him.

     ‘Yes,’ he replied, with a hint of defiance behind his voice. ‘I’ve been Red’s guest at the castle this whole time. And…and if my word is good for anything at all, please take me at it when I tell you he’s being sincere. It wasn’t his intention to…to mislead you, or me, or any of us! Not forever, anyway.’

     They did not look convinced. Maggie, in fact, looked livid, and Loam wondered for a moment if she had been hurt by deception in the past.

     ‘You’re right to be angry,’ said Red, staring hard at the table now. ‘I waited too long, I know this. Too long to let you all the way into my confidence. I’ve let everyone down, right at the moment when…’ He gulped deeply. ‘Right when my need has never been greater.’

     A long sigh escaped his lips that Loam realised was the beginning of bitter weeping. The Prince doubled forward and braced his hands against the edge of the table, head bowed as though in prayer as he gave himself to uncontrollable shaking.

     ‘I’m sorry,’ he choked. ‘ _I’m so sorry._ ’

     The Resistance looked bewildered, but also, to Loam’s encouragement, visibly concerned. He moved to stand beside his friend and placed a solemn hand upon his shoulder, looking at each of them like a barrister at the mercy of a council of jurors.

     ‘The Gerudo hit the castle tonight,’ he explained darkly. ‘They took Princess Zelda from her bed, to their fortress in the desert. Red’s called back the army, but it’s too late — she’s their prisoner for life.’

_‘No,’_ gasped Lady Rahala, her usual poise split apart by the news. The others seemed to stagger back a step, so stricken as to temporarily forget the matter of Red’s deception.

     ‘We need to get her back,’ said Loam. ‘We need to somehow get into the Arbiter’s Grounds unseen. If anyone can find a way, I _know_ it’s you guys. Please…’

     A lump seemed to solidify in his throat, and the cramped and careworn living room blurred behind stinging tears for a moment. He bowed his head and blinked several times in succession, steeling himself, so that when he looked back up again his gaze, and voice, were steady.

     ‘Please.’

 

* * *

 

     ‘It was once called the Spirit Temple,’ said Cojiro gravely, ‘long before we humans came to be — one of six anchors to the Sacred Realm on this earth, or so the legends have it. Then it was taken over and corrupted by the distant ancestors of the Gerudo, transformed into a warren of snakes and traps, a shrine to their demon mother, the Goddess of the Sand. For a thousand years it stood there, the Colossus, until the Hero came and restored its light. The Royal Family vanquished the Gerudo some years later and claimed it for Hyrule. They built the Arbiter’s Grounds to serve as a palace of justice for criminals and sorcerers, but its dark history has made it a magnet for evil these last few centuries.’

     ‘Fitting that these whores should come to dwell there again,’ growled Grist.

     Red looked solemn in the firelight. He was scrutinising the many yellowed sheaves of paper unfurled over the table, each marked with illustrations, diagrams and cramped notes.

     ‘I drew this,’ Cojiro continued, proffering a scrap at Loam, ‘five years ago, on my travels through the desert.’

     Loam took it from his hands and examined it. The Arbiter’s Grounds had a façade like a mighty arena, a circular edifice ringed by six tall towers, each bearing the standard of the Hylian Royal Family at the top.

     ‘Were you able to access the compound?’ asked Red.

     ‘Not at first,’ replied Cojiro, inclining his head with a rueful grimace. ‘Its forecourt is closed off by a natural rock wall on all sides. There is a passage on the north face, as wide as ten men, say, but the bulbins called it home in those days — the whole thing was choked with wooden barricades and guard towers. I couldn’t get through. I daresay it’s why your men haven’t been able to, either.’

     ‘But you _did_ get in?’ pressed the other.

     ‘Oh, yes,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘I’m not easily deterred, me. I followed the rock, found myself at the easternmost part of it. Just as I was about to call it a day, what should I find, but a passage barely wide enough for one to squeeze through?’

     Red leaned forward. ‘Where did this passage come out?’

     ‘On a precipice, halfway up the forecourt. I had a terrific view. Was able to draw this—’

     He sifted through the mess and produced a crude, but legible, map. The five others leaned in to examine it in his hands.

     ‘Tents, holding cells, causeways…lots of places to sneak around and hide, as indeed I did. Those blockheaded bulbins didn’t suspect a thing!’ He fixed Red with a penetrating stare. ‘But Gerudo aren’t bulbins, Your Maj—ah, that is, _Red._ They won’t miss a trick. Even if you succeed in slipping past their first defences, you will literally have to go through the front door to access the dungeon within.’

     All eyes turned to their leader, who sat still as stone, his face a mask even without the cowl.

     ‘So be it,’ he said at length. He stood up abruptly. ‘I, and my servant, will make for the desert at once. Thank you for this information — it’s invaluable.’ With bruised eyes, he looked upon each of them. ‘I have no expectation of further service. If any you would come with me, know now that death is a greater certainty than success.’

     Then he made for the door, Cojiro’s map in hand.

     ‘That never stopped me before,’ said Loam suddenly. He rose from his chair also, exhilaration in his heart, so that a look of defiance started to spread over his face. ‘And it won’t stop me now.’

     Though his eyes were locked onto Red’s, he heard the chairs scrape back around him, one after the other. In a moment, the whole of the Resistance was standing alongside him.

     ‘We’re coming with you, boyo,’ said Grist. ‘Just try and stop us.’

 

* * *

    

     Golden sunlight streamed through the wooden slats of the royal stables, as seven warriors prepared for their quest. Red had dressed and armed them with hooded cloaks and exquisite weaponry — all but Lady Rahala, who stood watching and silent by the door.

     Loam felt a certain solidness under the weight of his equipment, felt powerful and ready despite the odds they faced. He fastened brown leather gauntlets over his wrists and arms, gathered arrows into the quiver on his back and held his Hylian shield against the light, so that its triangular crest shone with golden brilliance. With a sweep of his cloak, he approached Apona, who whickered nervously at the palpable energy around her.

     ‘It’s all right, girl,’ he murmured, caressing her face with one hand.

     She had been saddled and shod by the stable boys, and looked very grand in the eyes of her rider. Around them, others were mounting: Cojiro, who had not stopped babbling since being granted entry to the castle, became caught in the stirrup and had to be assisted onto the back of his grey mare; Whisper slipped effortlessly onto the back of a sleeker, more stoic mount; while Grist was given the biggest, meanest charger in the whole of the Hylian cavalry, a black stallion over twenty hands long. He sat astride it comfortably, and welcomed Maggie into his lap for the journey.

     Red sheathed his rapier and gave Loam a bracing look, just as the captain of the guard strode in.

     ‘Sir?’

     ‘Ah, Captain,’ replied Red, crossing the stables to join him by the door. ‘Good. I have here instructions for the fifth legion, when they return to the castle sometime today.’ He gave the captain a scroll sealed with red wax. ‘Once the troops are refreshed, they are to make haste to Ordon Village, bearing weapons for every man there and lending aid for as long as the menace persists. Is that clear?’

     ‘Crystal, sir,’ said the other curtly. ‘May I ask … where will you be at this time?’

     Red gave a humourless sniff. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is no concern of yours. Dismissed.’

     The captain saluted and turned on a pivot, departing without protest. Red turned to Lady Rahala, who bowed her eyes at him in what Loam took as a gesture of apology.

     ‘What of you, Lady?’ murmured the Prince, taking her hand in his encouragingly.

     ‘The desert is no place for a Zora,’ she said, still not looking at him. ‘I will take the river, and meet you all on the shores of the great lake. I will see that your horses are looked after when you make the journey through the desert pass on foot.’

     ‘Of course.’ He kissed her hand, and she curtseyed gracefully. ‘We’ll see you soon.’

     He left her there and strode purposefully toward his horse, a pure white thoroughbred with a long and glossy mane. Mounting up with ease, he steered around to face his friends and gave each one a solemn look.

     ‘Lake Hylia is a full day’s journey,’ he said. ‘When we ride, we ride hard — no looking back.’

     Nobody spoke. Loam glanced at Whisper, whose red eyes watched her Prince, but were vacant.

     ‘Very well, then,’ said Red into the silence. ‘Follow me.’

 

* * *

 

     Five horses thundered across the Western drawbridge and into the blazing mid-morning sun. Hyrule Field shimmered before Loam, and not for the first time was his breath stolen by its exquisite beauty and vastness. The green land dipped and rose and dipped again, before rising, many miles in the distance, to form a black wall of rock, its jagged crown tipped with snow.

     ‘ _There’s home!’_ bellowed Grist happily, and Loam knew then that he was looking at the Peak Province. A spasm of longing rippled through him — longing to go there, to see it for himself someday.

     Red steered to the left, and the others fell into formation behind him, driving relentlessly south, grass and mud churning in their wake.

     ‘I say!’ called Cojiro, drawing up alongside Loam. ‘That dark lass with the curious eyes! Whoever is she?’

     ‘Her name’s Whisper!’ Loam hollered back at him. ‘She’s the Royal Protector!’

     ‘Bit young for the part, wouldn’t you say?’

     ‘Oh, she’s pretty gifted!’ He laughed then, unable to help himself. ‘ _She is Sheikah!’_

     It was worth it just to see the look on Cojiro’s face.

 

* * *

    

     They came around a bend at the mouth of a long gully, hours later. The sky had turned a mellow pink, and the sun’s deepening light cast an aura like ten thousand candles over the surface of Lake Hylia.

     ‘Oh, my _gosh,’_ gasped Loam, pulling on the reins so that Apona cantered to a halt on its muddy bank.

     Canyon walls as tall as Hyrule Castle formed a natural, green bowl into which Zora’s River poured its crystal waters ceaselessly. Beautiful rock formations, weathered away into hollows and natural land bridges over thousands of years, wound in and out, up and down around them, a playground of discovery that disappeared around a valley wall and agitated Loam’s curiosity no end. In the middle of the lake, across a boardwalk, a dilapidated shack with a steep shingled roof stood dark and vacant in the shadow of the Great Bridge of Hylia, which ran north-to-south high above them all.

     Waiting for them in the shallows was Lady Rahala. She smiled demurely and rose up out of the water, causing Loam to look away, as though he were intruding on something private.

     ‘Lady,’ said Red, sparing her a thin smile as he, too, came trotting to a standstill.

     Everyone dismounted and stretched. Nightfall was still a couple of hours away; they had done exceptionally well for time.

     ‘There’s the desert pass,’ said Cojiro, pointing at a shelf of solid rock on the valley’s western face. ‘Hard to make out from this distance, but there’s a climbing path that goes all the way up. The army marches by another road, obviously, some leagues north of here.’

     ‘Looks like a tough climb,’ Loam observed without enthusiasm.

     ‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ said Cojiro. He turned and looked at Loam with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Used to be, the only way to access the desert was by cannon!’

     With a chuckle, he wandered away, leaving Loam to ponder the meaning of this with one eyebrow raised. _Cannon?_

     ‘Over here, Loam,’ called Red.

     Loam turned and saw his friend sitting on the lip of the boardwalk. His boots were placed neatly beside him, his bare feet immersed in the lake’s pure water.

     ‘Sit with me a moment?’

     ‘Sure,’ said Loam, smiling.

     Side-by-side, they sat and watched the others tend their horses: Lady Rahala in conversation with Cojiro, Maggie and Grist; Whisper several yards removed from them, feeding her own mount from her hand. Loam could see in the corner of his eye that Red was watching her. Sensing his gaze, the Prince sighed.

     ‘She’s none too pleased with me,’ he confided. ‘Hasn’t said a word since the throne room.’

     ‘She’s upset,’ said Loam, somewhat lamely.

     ‘More than upset. Devastated. It was our — ah — _relationship_ that got in the way of her doing her duty last night. You saw, of course.’

     Loam said nothing, choosing merely to nod.

     ‘We became lovers the year before last,’ Red explained. He sounded removed from the story, like he was reciting from a history book. ‘I had been besotted with her since we were children. I knew — that is, I _know_ — that it could never last, given who I am and what she is, but … well, I couldn’t help it. I was in love.’

     He ran a hand through his golden hair, looking pained to the point of weariness.

    ‘I am in love,’ he finished. ‘It’s very hard.’

     Still, Loam had no words. He looked down at his bare feet, rippling and distorted beneath the water’s surface.

     ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Red observed unexpectedly. ‘This place?’

     ‘I’ve never seen so much water,’ said Loam, looking up. ‘We have a brook at home that feeds a pond, but it’s barely a puddle compared to all this.’

     ‘My father was an avid fisherman when he was alive. We used to come here in the summer, take a canoe out to where it’s deepest and cast our lures. He told me one time that someday we’d journey beyond Hyrule’s borders, as far west as you can go, to see the ocean. But it never happened. To this day, I’ve only seen it my dreams.’

     ‘You dream about the ocean?’

     ‘All the time,’ said Red. He closed his eyes. ‘Most nights, in fact. Night after night, it’s the same. I dream of great floodwaters rising up like a solid wall above the mountain ranges and consuming the whole world, then settling to stillness, blue and vast and empty of everything. Forever.’

     Opening his eyes, he gave Loam an uncertain half-smile. ‘Is that strange, do you think?’

     Loam held his gaze. ‘I guess it is,’ he admitted at last.

     ‘Sun’s almost gone, highness!’ shouted Grist from across the way, interrupting them. ‘We’d better make a move!’

     The two of them lifted their feet from the water and dried them with the hems of their cloaks. Having buckled their boots, they trudged back in the direction of the party as the first evening star appeared in the east.

     ‘Thank you, Grist,’ said Red with a playful frown. He looked to the others. ‘Now: by the time we clear the pass, night will have truly fallen. We will stick to the south side of the gorge that splits the desert. My armies will still be settled by the Mesa on the far side, but with luck they will begin their retreat while we attempt to break into the Arbiter’s Grounds. This may distract the Gerudo and open up a window of opportunity to get Zelda and get out of there. Any objections?’

     For a moment, there was silence. Then Whisper spoke.

     ‘You shouldn’t come,’ she said in an undertone.

     Red did a double-take, a curious, bemused look on his face. ‘I beg your pardon?’

     ‘You,’ she repeated, more firmly than before, ‘shouldn’t come.’

     Another silence, but deeper. Cojiro shuffled his feet uncomfortably as Red and Whisper stared each other down. The Prince sized her up, his blue eyes darting even as they narrowed. He appeared to be plotting a course for the coming argument.

     ‘And why is that, my lady of the Sheikah?’ he demanded at length.

     ‘You know why—’

     ‘ _Enlighten us_ ,’ he snapped.

     ‘Putting one member of the Royal Family in danger to rescue another is not good strategy.’

     ‘Oh, indeed!’ he said hotly. ‘You think so, do you? You think you know better than I do what’s right for my sister, my own flesh and blood?’

     ‘I am bound to protect the Royal—’

     ‘ _You_ are bound to do as we tell you!’ he thundered at her, and Loam winced as though stung. ‘Don’t for a second think you have the authority to—’

     But whatever Red had to say, they never found out. Whisper took two steps forward and placed her left hand on his face; two fingers on his cheek, her thumb to his throat. At first Loam thought she had moved to placate him with a caress, but the truth became quickly apparent. Red’s words were reduced to a gurgling rasp from his open mouth, his eyes bugging in their sockets before rolling back into his head, just as his body collapsed, twitching, to the ground. The whole of the Resistance cried out in astonishment.

     ‘What the hell are you doing?’ yelled Maggie, raising her armoured fists.

     ‘Saving his life,’ replied Whisper. She turned her burning eyes on each of them, daring them to speak. ‘Don’t be fools. You all knew that bringing him into the belly of the beast was going to cause more problems than it would solve.’

     They looked back at her, still horrorstruck at what they had seen — but nobody, including Loam, could find the words to contradict her. Satisfied, Whisper spoke directly to Lady Rahala.

     ‘He’ll be out for several hours,’ she said. ‘Stay with him. Take him upstream to Zora’s Domain, if you like. But when he comes to, he is not to follow us. You understand this, don’t you?’

     Lady Rahala knelt by the Prince, cradling his head on her lap. ‘I understand,’ she said sadly.

     ‘Good.’

     Loam stepped forward and gazed down at his friend disbelievingly, his throat dry from shock.

     ‘He’ll never forgive you for this,’ he said in a hollow voice.

     ‘He’ll forgive anything if I come home with the Princess,’ said Whisper dispassionately. She looked to the vanishing sun and seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘But you’re right, in a way. Things will never be the same between us. And that’s as it should be.’

     She started to walk in the direction of the pass.

     ‘Night has almost fallen,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘If you’re still intent on coming with, I can’t stop you. But nothing is going to stop me.’

     Then she broke into a run, and disappeared into the gathering gloom.

 

 


	14. To the Rescue

     Their arrival was not a quiet one.

 _‘Gods above,’_ panted Cojiro, mopping at his brow with a chequered handkerchief. ‘I take back what I said earlier, Loam, my dear fellow — that was indeed a tough climb!’

     He proffered an arm down at Loam, who took it gratefully and clambered onto the very edge of the Gerudo Desert. Grist brought up the rear, so unruffled by the workout he was able to bear Maggie on his shoulders the whole way.

     ‘You lot need to get out more,’ he chuckled, dusting off his palms.

     ‘Says the mountaineer,’ scoffed Cojiro halfheartedly. He braced his hands against his knees and took deep breaths for longer than was wholly decent.

     Loam peered down over the lip of the cliff, marvelling at the majesty of Lake Hylia, which appeared as a vast silver sheet in the moonlight. Turning, he observed the wasteland set before them, and stifled a gasp. White-blue beneath a sky full of stars, it rolled on like a parody of the green land he had left behind; sad, barren and eerie. Between the dunes, a crooked gorge split the desert almost evenly in two. To the north of it, beneath a rocky hillock, they could see hundreds of smart tents arranged in rows beneath Hylian banners, flickering torches passing up and down on patrol like fireflies. To the south, the ink black silhouette of the Arbiter’s Grounds dominated the horizon. Watching it gave Loam the uneasy impression of something vicious but dormant — a slumbering dragon with sensitive ears.

     ‘The army’s still here,’ said Grist, interrupting his reverie.

     ‘Yes,’ said Whisper, who until that moment had been all but invisible, causing the others to flinch in surprise. Her back was to them, and in the moonlight her feminine form was the black of purest jet. ‘If they’ve received their orders, they won’t make a start for Castle Town until first light. A shame. They would have been a valuable distraction.’

     She turned her blood red eyes upon Loam and examined him with apparent disinterest.

     ‘You came,’ she noted.

     ‘We did,’ said Loam warily. ‘Time will tell if you did right by Red back there. But for now, there’s a Princess who needs rescuing.’

     Whisper merely stared, blank and vacant as a sculpture. After a long moment, she inclined her head as if to agree and gestured for them to follow.

     As soon as they had put their first foot forward, the whistling began. Winter winds like the breath of a frail old phantom rushed past their faces and speckled them with stinging grains of sand. In a straight line they pressed on, keeping near to the canyon wall that bathed them in precious shadow. Loam felt a mounting tension with every mile, as the black mass of the Arbiter’s Grounds loomed ever larger. Compounding the unpleasantness was the thick fog that crept, strand by strand, through his brain; he had not slept for nearly forty hours, and the seeping fatigue left him feeling heavy and dull.

     ‘Y’alright, boyo?’ muttered Grist, clapping a massive hand on his shoulder from behind.

     ‘I’m fine,’ he replied, grinning weakly and letting go of the hilt of his sword long enough to offer a thumbs-up in return. ‘Really.’

     ‘Cojiro,’ said Whisper, when the towers were right before them and the desert limits curved inward to wall them off. ‘We’re here. Can you locate this entrance of yours?’

     ‘Let’s see, now,’ said Cojiro, stepping out in front and tracing his fingertips along the rock. He took long, even strides, and murmured to himself as if in debate. ‘Aha!’ he piped up after several minutes of this. ‘Oh, jolly good. Jolly, jolly good! I had feared they might close it over, but no — here we are. Grist, old boy, you shall have to suck it in a bit. Other than that…’

     He gestured with an open palm at a gap in the rock, narrow and jagged, but unmistakably the entrance they sought. No sooner had he stepped out of the way than Whisper disappeared inside. Loam followed, sidling between the weathered stone, his sheathed sword grazing it and trailing fine dust at his feet. For a time all was pitch black, and Loam knew a cramped and claustrophobic discomfort, as well as the irrational fear that the tunnel would not open up at the other end and they would be trapped there forever. Grist was steadily cursing from somewhere nearer the entrance, the sound of his bulk forcing its way through the passage oddly soothing under the circumstances.

     The moonlight reappeared after several long minutes, streaming in through the mouth of a small cave. Whisper was already crouched down and peering through it with one leg outstretched behind her, the contours of her athletic body stark and provocative in black-and-white. Loam crawled over to be beside her, and soon the five of them were peering down at the forecourt of the Arbiter’s Grounds.

     ‘Good goddess,’ rasped Cojiro. ‘They’re _everywhere_.’

     The compound was a ruin of fallen columns and collapsed masonry. In a strange way, it bore some resemblance to an open-air maze, one littered with traps and pitfalls; crude wooden barricades and makeshift watch towers choked the way like thorny bramble. Just as Cojiro had observed, the place was crawling with Gerudo sentries, veiled warriors in rich purple silk and cotton, carrying glaives over one shoulder — metallic shafts the length of a javelin, but with a cruel, hooked blade at the end. Some patrolled the passages, others surveyed their domain from the towers; still others sat around a roaring fire in the sleeping quarters, talking in low voices.

     ‘There’s too much light,’ said Maggie, scowling.

     Her companions nodded. Blazing torches were mounted in brackets every few yards, illumining the whole of the fortress like a cauldron full of molten slag. Its orange glow lit up the face of the great palace of justice to their left, its front entrance a gaping maw at the top of a long flight of stairs.

     ‘Zelda’s in there,’ said Loam, pointing at it. Longing and hopelessness warred against each other in his chest. ‘There’s no way we can get to her unnoticed.’ He turned to address Whisper. ‘Maybe if you —’

     But the Sheikah girl was no longer numbered among them. Dust was gently settling in the place she had occupied only a moment ago. The others gasped and craned their necks over the edge of the precipice, watching out for her movements, but the night carried on without interruption.

     ‘Gone without a trace,’ murmured Grist. He looked slightly miffed. ‘Cheeky cow.’

     They huddled there in silence for a small while, surveying the scene and feeling rather clueless.

     ‘Hang on a minute — one of the tower sentries has gone missing!’ hissed Cojiro suddenly. ‘Over there, you see? That one was manned a minute back. And look! That corridor there…four of its torches have been put out!’

     Loam sat up on his knees and let out a long breath. ‘It’s Whisper. She’s clearing a path through to the Arbiter’s Grounds.’

     Now that Cojiro had pointed out the evidence of her movements, Loam could feel her more than see her, advancing like the darkness toward her final goal. A thrill of foreboding came over him for the fate of any Gerudo who crossed her, and with it came the confidence to make a move of his own.

     ‘So, what do we do?’ demanded Maggie.

     ‘We follow,’ said Loam. He drew the Ordon sword with a clear ring of steel. ‘Stay close, now.’

     Then he vaulted over the side and fell ten feet onto a mound of sand. Robbed of the secrecy and vantage of the cave, his confidence jarred and fled almost at the moment of impact, and like some absurd beetle he crouched low and half-waddled his way into the warren of dangers before him. In moments he was joined by his friends, but felt somehow more exposed by their addition, felt cumbersome and obvious in a place where to be seen was to meet with certain death. Together, they kept to the patches of shadow that Whisper had forged in her wake, each of them brandishing a blade: Cojiro with his rapier, twin daggers for Maggie, and a mammoth broadsword in the hands of Grist.

     Around the first bend they were met with a fork in the road — a crumbling stair half-immersed in sand to their left, and to their right a makeshift gate of crisscrossing wooden beams. The gate looked as though it had recently been forced open, its iron padlock dangling uselessly by its shackle. Darkness waited within.  

     ‘She went this way,’ whispered Loam.

     Passing under its threshold, they experienced at once the rancid smell of animal muck, and Loam could not help but to wince in revulsion. Cojiro placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke into his ear in a voice that was barely a breath: ‘ _Bullbos.’_

     As if in reply, a placid grunting noise rumbled out from somewhere in the gloom, and Loam sensed something hot and large shift nearby.

    ‘Bulbin mounts,’ Cojiro went on. ‘Wild pigs, big as a man, tusks like spears. We’d do well not to wake them!’

     They kept their backs to the wall and journeyed to where the moonlight streamed in through a back exit. A small courtyard opened up before them, strewn with wooden crates, barrels and canvas sailcloths bearing the faint salt tang of the sea. Grist stepped forward and crouched to pick up a still-smoking torch from the sand.

     ‘There’s no stopping her now,’ he observed in undertone. ‘Capable lass. Wonder if she even needs us?’

     ‘She will if she gets caught in a fight,’ said Loam.

     Behind them, Cojiro stifled a groan. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, sounding suddenly ill. ‘I think she’s got that part covered, too.’ He had pressed his knuckles to his mouth and nose involuntarily, and gestured with his rapier at the narrow passage opposite, where a bloody trail snaked down into the darkness. Fresh, red handprints streaked the walls in ominous bursts.

     ‘That way, then,’ he added, swallowing. ‘I suppose.’

     With Grist and Maggie at his side, Cojiro proceeded on, but Loam lingered in the square, studying the blood with the dreadful fascination of a small boy in a butcher’s mart. It was a minute before he realised how far behind the party he had fallen, but before he could scramble to catch them up, a soft wind stirred his tunic from behind. Turning to look, he felt his heart seize in his chest.

     Standing there before him was a Gerudo warrior, resplendent in jade green silk and carrying dual scimitars as long as his arms, her golden eyes hawklike above her veil.

     ‘Hello,’ he blurted stupidly. He stopped just shy of adding ‘Please don’t kill me,’ and instead pointed his sword at her in warning, though a part of him knew that she had only to cry out, and the whole of her tribe would descend upon him like flies over an open carcass.

     She did not breathe a word. Instead, she raised her own blades, one above her head, the other across her chest, forming an almost perfect circle of silver through which those unblinking eyes stared out at him with the focused hunger of the born predator. He took her meaning.

     ‘All right. All right, yes, just — just a second.’

     With his fumbling free hand, he took the shield from his back. For a moment he studied her posture, grasping after clues for the coming fight, but then realised, with a terrible sinking feeling, that he had no idea what to look for.

     ‘Ready,’ he croaked.

     A puff of sand, and she was upon him. The first blade locked against his shield, the second his sword, and for a fraction of a second they braced the weight of their bodies against the other, before she drove a knee into his stomach with the force of a battering ram. Loam dropped like a stone, goggling and breathless, whole constellations of stars erupting in his vision, accompanied by the urgent sense that he would be beheaded if he remained that way a moment longer. He thrust his left fist blindly in front of him, felt the glancing impact of her blade against his shield for the second time, and slashed with his sword as if to cut her slippered feet from under her. The Gerudo danced to avoid it, a pirouette that put a yard’s distance between them and allowed Loam to push himself to a stand, though he stooped slightly and was still horribly winded. Pain and fear twisted together on his face in a manic snarl.

     This time, _he_ attacked.

     Steel met steel high and low, strike and counterstrike so fast it seemed the pair of them had committed the steps to memory, their lethal ballet driven by his desperation and her remorseless, dead-eyed composure. Together, they steered around the clearing, nimbly stepping over the clutter, white sparks illumining the shadows with every stroke. Before long, the Gerudo became like a bird to Loam, her silver wings gliding and beating with a grace that was all at once savage and — weirdly, _impossibly_ — erotic.

     Cornered, she crossed her blades like a pirate’s banner, and opened them with force enough to jolt him back a step. Loam flinched, but his kept hold of his wits. For a moment, he longed to meld the gesture into a broader retreat; open the space, conserve strength, have a break, a reprieve, a tiny intermission — and this he decided to do. But then a spasm of rage, the rage of beasts in a blood frenzy, turned the sinews of his body into hot rocks, and the retreat became instead a blistering assault. In two massive strokes, he walloped the scimitars from her hands — her grip was loose; his sudden aggression had caught her by surprise — and with a vicious kick to the chest from his heavy boot, her fate was all but sealed. Her body jarred against the stone wall violently, but soundlessly, and there she slumped, awaiting her fate with a look of cold surprise.

     Loam arced the Ordon Sword high over his head, using the momentum of his arm to turn the point on her. He would end the dance now, stop her heart with a quick, firm stab and be done with it; she would be dead and he would be alive, and that was a good thing, a very good thing. These were the thoughts he had in the mania of his panic and wrath, but in that moment they simply did not take. Their power, their animal logic, seeped out of him the moment she crumpled. Robbed of her blades, she looked shockingly small, vulnerable; a half-folded tangle of brown arms and green silk in a pile before him; a deadly foe, but not a monster — not in the truest sense.

     She was a person. He had never killed a person, and he knew then, standing paralysed above her, that he never, ever could.

     ‘I don’t know what to do now,’ he said hoarsely.

     The girl arched an eyebrow at him, whether from pity or confusion, he never found out. Instantly, she seized a fistful of sand and pelted it at his face. Loam cried out and staggered, felt a jolt up his arm as she kicked the Ordon sword from his grip, and blinked his streaming eyes in time to see her catch it in one hand, take aim —

     — and die.

     Three long darts appeared, protruding from her bare collarbone in immediate succession. Her eyes widened for only a fraction of a second before they took on the unseeing quality of corpses, and she collapsed utterly, the weight of his sword directing her fall. Loam gaped, his senses in a state of ruin, not knowing where to look or what to think. He turned just in time to see Whisper striding toward him, her red eyes all at once icy and ablaze above the mask she wore.

     ‘Whisper—’ he stammered, but the word caught in his throat when she seized him by the collar and lifted him bodily off the ground with one arm.

     She dangled him there and looked deep into his eyes, and her controlled fury was such that when she spoke she sounded almost robotic: ‘Hesitation is not an option. Do you understand?’

     Loam could barely squeeze out a ‘ _yes_ ’ before she cast him roughly to one side. He massaged his throat and gazed up at her, panting heavily.

     ‘Why didn’t she alert the others?’ he wondered, beckoning at the dead body of his enemy.

     Whisper gathered up her darts and tossed the Ordon sword in his direction. ‘Because she didn’t think she had to,’ she replied. ‘The green ones aren’t like the rest. They don’t sound the alarm, they finish the job.’

     He nodded his understanding, blood still pounding in his ears as the adrenaline ebbed and flowed. ‘Thank you for saving me,’ he said in a small voice. ‘I realised — at the end — that I just…I-I don’t have it in me to take a life. Not even a Gerudo life.’

     She fixed him with her ice sculpture stare, appraising him and arriving at a decision. ‘Then what’s the point of you?’ she wondered finally. ‘Go home. It should be safe there, by the time you get back.’

     Shocked, Loam opened his mouth to protest, but the words were drowned out by a sudden uproar that caused his heart to plummet. A chorus of shrieking rose up to the night sky from somewhere very near, and with it the clanking of metal as armed guards gave chase.

     ‘No,’ spat Whisper, turning on her heel and taking flight down the blood-soaked passage.

     Loam barrelled after her, his thoughts only for his friends now, and for how stupid he had been to fall behind in the first place. Arriving at the end, his eyes swivelled around to take in the Gerudo’s living quarters — canvas tents the colour of earth, makeshift targets mounted on bales of hay for archery practice, and the great bonfire, over which the giant carcass of some enormous creature was suspended, black as tar. The buzzing swarm of warrior women was on the move; Loam saw only their backs as they disappeared down an adjoining corridor, Whisper at their heels. Only dimly did it occur to him that the great stair at the base of the entrance to the Arbiter’s Grounds was empty and unwatched in precisely the opposite direction.

     Brandishing his sword, he raced instead to help the Resistance.

     No sooner had he rounded the bend than he was forced to leap awkwardly over another dead Gerudo, then another after that — Whisper had become a force of nature, a death artist of prodigious output. _And I can’t so much as scratch them…_

     He passed another animal pen, heard the unsettled grunts of the creature behind its crude wooden gate. Ahead of him, the high-walled maze diverged into three separate paths, and yet the sound of battle and pursuit seemed to emanate from each of them. He could hear Grist cursing the women, caught the unmistakable clatter of swordplay, and now arrows streaked the sky, whizzing overhead and breaking apart against stone, as if meant for him…

     ‘ _Help_ ,’ he gasped.

     The ruckus rose to a sudden, frightening crest, and a moment later there they were — Cojiro, Grist and Maggie appeared straight ahead, hurtling pell-mell toward him with terror in their eyes.

     ‘RUN!’ roared Cojiro. Blood oozed from a gash that trailed from his brow to the line of his jaw.

     Loam turned tail without question and together they bolted back the way they had come, only to run afoul of a second company of killers and thieves, a seething, chattering mass of purple silk fringed with silver spear tips. The Resistance staggered to a halt.

     ‘We’re trapped,’ said Maggie, her voice a true girl’s voice now, small and shrill.

     ‘The stable!’ cried Loam, pointing.

     By some miracle, its gate was unbarred. Loam directed his friends inside, too distraught to comment beyond wordless yells.

     The moment they set foot in the shade of the pen, they were confronted by the sight of a gigantic Bullbo, a wild boar the height of one horse and the girth of two others. Its hide was matted, mangy and reeking of urine, and its leering, spit-flecked mouth was framed by tusks that made the Ordon Sword look like some kind of dainty letter-opener. Beady red eyes roved in their sockets, and its hooves stamped the sand in agitation, even as one was tethered to the floor by a rusty manacle.

     ‘Not much better in here, Loam!’ said Grist urgently, bracing his back against the gate as it bucked and shuddered — the horde fought to break through, their screeching voices incoherent, but laced with the promise of the worst kind of violence. Suddenly, a voice rose above them all, scratchy and nasal and seemingly deranged with bloodlust.

 _‘Out of the way!’_ it shrieked. ‘ _Out of the way, I say! I know how to deal with scum like this. KEEP SEARCHING FOR THE PRINCESS, HYLIANS! YOU’RE GETTING WAAARRRMEERRRRR…!’_

     As one, the crowd behind the gate seemed to retreat like the tide, leaving a deeply unpleasant silence in their wake.

     ‘Have they given up, d’you suppose?’ panted Cojiro. He seemed genuinely hopeful.

     A gentle splashing sound was his answer, the wet slap of liquid being poured from a bowl in fits and starts. Grist, whose massive frame remained as a bulwark against the timber lattice, turned his head sharply and sniffed twice.

     ‘Lantern oil,’ he said in a tight voice. ‘You don’t think —?’

     He was cut off when a rush of flame like a demon’s arm exploded from the earth, consuming their wooden prison up to the ceiling. Grist howled and leapt away, while the Bullbo lost all control, rearing up on its hind legs and slicing open Maggie’s arm with its tusk in the process. She tumbled to the ground, soaked through with blood and sweat.

     ‘ _Maggie!_ ’ wailed Cojiro. He fell to his knees beside her, tearing open his own tunic and expertly making a tourniquet, even as the searing blaze devoured everything around them. He looked beseechingly at Loam and said, with great conviction, ‘We’re going to die.’

     Loam backed away into the far wall, shaking his head and fighting tears. Black smoke swirled about as the Bullbo thrashed and squealed, and Loam thought, _here it is, then —_ death, in all its stinking, screaming, scorching horror.

_Crack._

     The wooden board behind his shoulders came suddenly loose and was removed outright. He spun on the spot and could not believe what he was seeing — Whisper, wrenching apart the rear wall with just her fingers, making an ever-widening hole to escape through. She pulled her mask down, revealing her beautiful face in full.

     ‘Don’t just stand there!’ she demanded, and seconds later both Loam and Grist were forging a way out alongside her, both men soot-blackened and pouring sweat.

     In moments the hole was wide enough even for Grist to escape through, and Loam clambered out into the moonlight, at the far end of a broad passage that cut straight through to the fortress’ north pass; he could see the desert glinting dull blue in the distance.

     ‘We can’t stay here,’ he breathed, defeat washing over him like the freezing night air. ‘We have to leave.’

 _‘Cojiro!’_ shouted Grist over the roar of the flames. ‘ _Cojiro, come on! Get out of there!’_

     But the older man could not hear him. He had bundled Maggie out of the way of the thrashing Bullbo and had his back to them, unaware of Whisper’s miraculous act of deliverance. An ominous groan reverberated above the commotion, followed by the drawn-out creak of imminent collapse. Whisper said something that Loam couldn’t hear and dived into the stable, crash tackling Cojiro just as part of the roof gave out and crumbled in a pillar of smoke and swirling embers.

     ‘NO!’ screamed Loam and Grist in unison.

     The fire danced and writhed, rippling and unquenchable, and for a moment Loam thought he would faint from the intensity — and then the curtains parted, and there was Cojiro, holding not Maggie but Whisper, unconscious and limp as a rag doll. Maggie half-stood beside him, clutching at the gory bandage on her arm and looking agonised while the great Bullbo strained at its shackle, as desperate for release as any of them.

     _Release._

     Even through the fog of despair, of terror and fatigue; even as he looked upon the broken body of the last Sheikah in the heart of the inferno, Loam experienced the crystal clarity of an idea taking shape in his mind.

     ‘Get on the pig,’ he instructed Grist.

     ‘ _What?_ ’

     ‘Do it, Grist! We have one shot at busting out of here with our lives, now _get on the pig!_ ’

     Grist let out a guttural growl and manfully bundled Cojiro, Maggie and Whisper onto the bucking back of their new mount, struggling aboard himself and reaching a hand down to collect Loam. The fire was absolute now, and in seconds the skeleton of the stable would fall into itself and burn them all to death, but still Loam looked at the proffered palm of his friend with the dull resignation of a man who had unfinished business to attend.

     ‘ _What are you doing?’_ Grist thundered. ‘ _Take my hand!’_

     Loam swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, friend,’ he said softly, ‘but I’ll take my chances.’

     Then he executed his plan with two strokes of the sword: the first to split apart the shackle in the ground, and the second to slash the creature’s hindquarters, causing it to cry out in pain and bolt away like an avalanche of hair and flesh. The Resistance held on for dear life as the creature mowed down every wooden barricade for a quarter of a mile in the direction of the desert, trailing splinters and flames in its wake. Moments later, the stable was utterly devoured by the fire and crashed apart in a pillar of smoke. Loam fled, taking cover behind a barrel as the first screams of indignation rent the air — the Gerudo realised what was happening seemingly as one, and sprinted through the flaming wreckage after the runaway hog with their weapons held high.

      The moment they had passed him by, he broke into a sprint, circling back around to their deserted living quarters to the foot of the stair that would take him to the Arbiter’s Grounds. In the ringing silence that followed his ordeal, he could hear only his boots scuffing the stone steps, his wheezing breaths, and the drumming of his heart in his chest. The massive citadel welcomed him into its front entrance without opposition, and once inside he trailed his fingertips down the cold stone and slid into a tight crouch, sobbing through gritted teeth for what might have been a long time, if it was any time at all.

     It was dark in there.

     The entrance hall was long, but with a low ceiling; only a few feet higher than his head. There were warped iron bars encircling piles of brown skulls and bones, and much of the floor was immersed in sand. A single, guttering torch was on the far side, beside a second stone door. Loam stood to his feet and crossed the length of the room rather gingerly, struggling more than once to dislodge his boots from the deceptively deep and shifting sands. He tried not to think about his predicament — that there were greater dangers in here than out there, that the odds of him securing the Princess and getting away after the pandemonium he had wrought in the fortress were less than zero — but his limbs were stiffening now, his eyeballs coarse and chalky, and the sheer stress of the evening, he knew, could shut his body down completely at any time.

     Arriving at the other end, he pressed his hands to the stone slab of a door, felt a mechanical jolt from somewhere inside, and stood back as it rose up and revealed total blackness on the other side. A cold, slightly foul breeze wafted past him from within, causing him to wince. He removed the torch from its bracket and proceeded inside, clutching his sword and turning his head constantly. The deep orange light revealed a room higher and wider than the last, weathered hieroglyphs carved into every inch of its circular walls. It was barren in there, save for a couple of mottled bones and shards of pottery, and it wasn’t until he had crossed most of the way through that he discovered a second occupant, standing directly in front of him.

     Loam stifled a yelp of fright and swung his sword convulsively, his skin prickling with gooseflesh from the neck down. But the terror waned, and the suppressed cry turned to nervous laughter — his new friend was merely an empty suit of armour, albeit of a kind Loam had never seen before. In the first place, it was gigantic — taller and broader than even Grist, with plate metal shoulders fringed with spikes, and a horned helmet that gave it the appearance of a devil in shades of red and chrome. In its lobstered hands it held a double-edged battle axe with a shaft as long as Loam was tall. He let a calming breath pass through his tight lips, and said a silent prayer of thanks that it was not alive.

     And then, just like that, he was surrounded by living foes on all sides.

     The ceiling turned suddenly bright as one dozen — _two_ dozen — Gerudo warriors appeared bearing torches of their own, standing around him and above him, looking down into the room that only now Loam realised was not a room at all, but a pit. Their faces were unveiled, and were beautiful and terrible, alight with malice as they taunted him in a riot of cruelty. Loam bared his teeth up at them, but only to keep his face from crumpling, for now his despair was complete, his body braced for the last thing it would ever feel: arrowheads and scimitars running him through on all sides.

     The chatter died away, and all eyes turned deferentially to the head of the room, right above where the suit of armour stood impassive and immaculate.

     There stood Fierra, the chieftain of her clan, even more exquisite in the firelight than in moonlight, with a look of triumph in her eyes that Loam would not forget until his dying day — which was to say, in mere moments.

     ‘Well!’ she said brightly. ‘You’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?’

 

 


	15. Boss Battle

     ‘You’re that boy,’ said Fierra. ‘I thought I told you not to follow us, boy.’

     ‘I’ve come for the Princess,’ he declared, in a firm voice that belied his racing heart.

     ‘Yes, I’d gathered that. Have you come alone?’

     ‘I have.’

     ‘ _Liar_.’ She turned her fine nose to the ceiling and glanced languidly from side-to-side. ‘I’ll bet that naked shadow bitch is here as well — the one who killed dear Sansoora. She had a hungry look about her that I rather liked.’

     The woman mused on this turn of events for a moment, tracing a fingertip over her bare collarbone and smiling her satisfied smile. She was aggressively, almost violently, beautiful. Despite his predicament, Loam had to blink and look away to maintain focus.

     ‘ _Djarra, Vigoor,_ ’ she announced suddenly, and two of her lieutenants stood to attention at the opposite end of the room. She then addressed them in a foreign language, one which sounded to Loam like the strangest mix of blissful sighs and the hissing of serpents. The women nodded their understanding and departed, brandishing their scimitars meaningfully.

     ‘My girls have a nose for intruders,’ explained Fierra. ‘If you’ve an accomplice here tonight, I’m afraid you’ll not see them again in any form you recognise.’

     Loam said a silent prayer for his friends, hoping against hope that they were able to carve a path through the chaos he left behind, out into the safety of the world beyond. He swallowed hard and gazed up at her again, squeezing the hilt of the Ordon sword hard enough for his leather gauntlets to creak in protest.

     ‘Where’s Zelda?’ he demanded.

     ‘Not that it’s _any_ of your business,’ she reminded him delicately, ‘but since you asked, I’ve been true to my word. The Princess is unharmed and well cared for. There have been fewer knitting lessons and piano recitals than perhaps she’s used to, I’ll grant you that, but between us I rather think she’s better off without.’

     ‘Let me see her.’

     ‘You don’t trust me?’ She pouted her bottom lip and made a comically tragic face at him. ‘I’m hurt. We cutthroat thief queens have feelings too, you know.’ The look vanished, melting back into her characteristic droll smirk. ‘But all right. Let’s put it down to last requests, shall we?’

     She snapped her fingers once, and immediately a woman appeared from the shadows behind her, a much older woman with a hooked nose and skin like folds of leather, ushering in Princess Zelda by her shoulders. Loam gasped; the girl was almost unrecognisable. She had been clothed as a Gerudo, in deep purple with midriff bared, beads and emeralds on her wrists and a diamond in her navel. In the midst of her swarthy captors, her porcelain skin made her look almost like an apparition, and her hair, to Loam’s horror, had been shorn off — it was as short as a boy’s now, and stood up in strawberry blonde tufts.

     ‘Zelda,’ he breathed.

     The Princess, who had been looking at her feet with her shoulders hunched in fear, peered down at him and was instantly overcome.

     ‘ _Loam!’_ she cried.

     Unthinkingly, she started toward him, but the old crone’s grip on her was firm. She gave him a pained look with her enormous, cornflower blue eyes, wanting nothing more than to be bundled into his arms and carried safely home.

     ‘It’s all right, Princess,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be all right.’

     ‘Mmm, ‘fraid not,’ said Fierra with a sarcastic wince. ‘Not for you. See, you’re going to die…and she’s going to watch.’ She turned and stroked Zelda’s face, catching a tear with her thumb and tasting it thoughtfully. ‘This will be your first lesson, my love — _the truth about happy endings.’_

     ‘She’s a seven year-old girl,’ growled Loam, but rising panic was already turning his voice shrill.

     ‘Your point being? I once tore a man’s tongue out at that age, using only my teeth. By the standards of our people, this one’s a late bloomer! Watch carefully now, Princess. No looking away.’

     Fierra took a single stride forward, so that her bare toes curled over the lip of the arena, right above where the hulking suit of armour stood frozen and empty in front of Loam.

     ‘Normally, we Gerudo shun sorcery,’ she explained. An indulgent grin spread across her face, and Loam watched in terrified fascination as her dusky eyes rolled back and closed over, just as she raised two fingers to the jewel on her forehead. ‘But these are exceptional times, wouldn’t you say?’

     At her touch, the red ruby turned brilliant white. When she opened her eyes, they too were radiant, had become sightless lamplights that gave her the appearance of a deity. It was this same light that blazed brightly in the seams and grilles of the suit of armour for just a moment, before fading to a dull, pink glow. Loam looked upon it with dread heavy in the pit of his stomach, turning his sword over in his hand and standing his ground with difficulty.

     Then it moved.

     With a grinding, scraping noise, its joints flexed and stretched as it lumbered to life; nine feet of leather and iron, its breathtaking battle axe held fast; a waking nightmare, horned and mailed and utterly invincible. Loam felt his muscles turn to water.

     ‘I’m dead,’ he blurted.

     Fierra bared her white teeth in delight. ‘Now you’re catching on. _Begin!’_

     The women in the wings began to shriek and jeer and curse anew, spattering the sand around Loam’s feet with gobs of their spit. Loam paid them no heed. He was transfixed by the vision of death that approached him slowly, its colossal girth clanking with every footfall. He looked at the head of its axe, as big around as a silver platter, and knew that a single swing would reduce a human body to a fine bloody vapour. But just beyond the weapon’s gleaming edge he saw the face of the girl he had come to save, fair and small and streaked with tears, heartbroken to bear witness to his fate, and to have her own fate so finally sealed — and something inside him snapped.

     A sob racked his whole body, and with it came a rush of valour, like hot wind. The time had come again to dance the dance.

     In an instant, he fastened the Hylian shield over his left arm and fell into a fighter’s stance. The possessed suit tramped nearer, one foot after the other, peering down at him with sightless eyes, like its master. At five paces, its left hand slid down the shaft of the axe to join its right, and with a rush of wind that sent grains of sand flying it swung the blade over one shoulder and down with force enough to open the earth. Loam cried out and catapulted himself to safety in the nick of time. The earthquake that accompanied the plunging of steel into stone unbalanced the audience above, and caused crumbs of masonry to rain from the ceiling. For a moment, the world reeled, but Loam’s recovery was quick, abetted by the sight of his foe struggling to dislodge the axe head from the floor.

     At once, he took flight toward it, and before its weapon could be freed, he closed the gap and drove the point of his sword into its breastplate. He was rebuffed; its hollow chest gonged like a temple bell, and the blade glanced off it uselessly. The suit, abandoning its axe for a moment, plunged a free hand at Loam, who ducked and weaved out of reach, disappearing under its armpit and emerging at the rear. Down the spine he saw crisscrossed leather banding, and chanced a downward slash, but it was thick and rubbery and unable to be penetrated without more effort than Loam’s own body could expend. He looked wildly for a crevice, a gap, somewhere to thrust his blade that would at least disable his enemy, but there was nothing, not even a sliver, for him to target.

     With a _crack_ of foreboding, the axe was pulled free and the suit turned to face Loam for the second round.

     ‘Try again,’ Fierra taunted softly. ‘You may get lucky.’

     Loam circled his opponent as it came towards him once more. Its slowness unnerved him somehow; it seemed to suggest that it could carry on forever, long after Loam’s own strength had fled. Just as he was thinking this, the armour braced its axe and broke into a stiff run without warning.

 _‘AUGH!’_ he cried, unprepared and senseless with terror.

      He backed away, but was pressed against the wall almost at once. The suit swung, this time from the side, and it was only by pure luck that Loam’s knees buckled, causing the axe to whizz by overhead and blast a gouge into the stone that was deep as it was long. The tremor caused one of the spectating Gerudo to lose her footing and fall into the arena; shamefacedly she scurried back up like a spider, while her sisters laughed and laughed. Loam somersaulted between the suit of armour’s legs and appeared in the centre of the ring, clammy with cold sweat.

     Time slowed, then, in that instant. He stood up straight and gasped.

     The monster’s head was bowed as it regained its balance, still facing away from him. With its great horned helmet tilted forward, a fissure between head and shoulders appeared, the dull pink essence glimmering from within.

_Its weak point._

     ‘Very good,’ whispered Fierra over the cacophony, watching his face with her blazing ghost eyes. ‘But how will you administer the killing stroke?’

     The armour turned slowly, dragging a line in the sand with the axe head. It rolled its shoulders once in a bizarrely human gesture, then broke into its straight-backed dash for the second time, wielding its weapon in one hand with both arms outstretched like a bird taking flight. Loam braced for a countermove, adjusting his posture; but just as he did, the heel of his boot caught a loose tile, crooked and sharp. A plunging sensation in his stomach alerted him to the fact that he had ruined his balance and risked toppling over. It was too late — the most he could manage as he staggered backwards was to raise the Hylian shield as a feeble defence against the bone-crushing swing of the battle axe.

     The collision shattered the shield into a thousand splinters and propelled Loam into the air, a spectacular triple-twirl that left him spread-eagled on his head against the far wall, nursing a broken arm and screaming in pain.

     A wave of uproarious cheering and laughter rent the air. Zelda dropped to her knees and reached a futile hand in the direction of her would-be saviour. Fierra merely folded her arms, her expression unreadable.

 _‘OHHH!_ ’ wailed Loam, rolling heavily onto his side and gripping his left arm in agony. ‘ _Argh._ Unh…’

     ‘We conclude, then,’ said Fierra curtly. She touched the jewel on her forehead with her index finger, and the the suit of armour resumed its march in the direction of Loam’s prone body. Loam did not — could not — move. His chin was tucked into his chest as he lay awkwardly with one knee raised, drawing shallow breaths and blinking away tears. He could feel the earth thrum with every approaching step, could feel the shadow of his immense adversary spill over him until he was enveloped by it. Clutching haphazardly at the sword beside him, he struggled to sit up, struggled to regain some sense of himself before the end.

     A drawn-out metallic groan filled the room as the suit of armour raised the axe high above its head.

     ‘And so it goes,’ declared Fierra. ‘Such a pity. I’ll keep the Princess, just as I said I would…but you, at least, I shall return to her brother.’ She flashed him a wicked grin, and added: ‘One piece at a time.’

     She bent over and kissed Zelda on the crown of her head, not even looking at Loam as she gave the order: _‘Kill.’_

     The axe dropped, faster and harder than a guillotine. Though witnesses would later argue over exactly what happened next, the consensus was that Loam opened his legs and pushed himself to a hasty stand, avoiding the blade by such a narrow margin that a bright red cut appeared down his cheek. Sword in hand and roaring like a beast, he mounted the shaft of the axe and scrambled onto the suit of armour’s broad shoulders, where he jerked its helmet forward by the horns and plunged his sword into its exposed neck until only the crossbar was visible.

     A pulse of smoky lightning rushed out from its every seam, and with an almighty, otherworldly screech of grinding metal, it dropped to its knees and fell completely to pieces, scattered parts clanging like pots and pans in every direction. Loam tumbled to the floor and remained there, gripping his ruined arm and trailing blood and saliva into the sand.

     His suppressed groans were the only sound in the room. Those who stood over him were utterly thunderstruck, slack with astonishment, their white mouths a perfect ‘O.’

     One by one, they looked to their leader, whose glowing eyes faded slowly back to their usual dusky golden hue. The jewel that she had used to control her puppet had cracked perfectly in half. Though she did not look as foolishly confounded as her minions, there was an expression on her face that Loam had never seen before; wide-eyed and purse-lipped, the cold calm of an angry mother.

     ‘The Iron Knuckle,’ she said quietly, after several long moments, ‘was an heirloom of my people. It has rendered its service to this tribe for five thousand years. And yet, you have cut it down like a sapling in our midst tonight. How interesting.’ She crossed one arm under her breasts, and propped her other elbow in its palm, caressing her cheek with lacquered fingernails and musing to herself. ‘How very, very interesting…’

     ‘The Princess,’ croaked Loam, almost inaudibly.

     ‘I beg your pardon?’

     ‘Give me…the Princess…’

     A coughing fit burbled up into the back of his throat and caused him to double over into a ball, mouthing Zelda’s name insensibly.

     She considered him for another long moment, so inscrutable that she herself could have passed for a suit of armour, and whatever thoughts or plans she was forming were a mystery to all but herself.

     ‘Seize him,’ she decided finally.

     Her sisters were only too happy to oblige. Shrieking like monkeys, they poured into the circle and hoisted him roughly to his feet, caring not an ounce for his injury, and striking him with open palms across the face.

 _‘Loam!’_ cried Zelda, struggling against the restraining arms of Fierra’s servant. ‘ _Loam, no! Don’t!’_

      ‘To the dungeons,’ ordered Fierra, turning away and retreating into shadow as Loam was dragged by the mob from the arena. His head lolled weakly to one side as a creeping blackness clouded his vision and the fire in his arm roared on and on.

     ‘Princess,’ he murmured a final time. ‘I’m sorry.’

 

 


	16. Cellmates

     It was dark when Loam came to. Dark and cold.

     Upon waking, he did not move a muscle; he merely stared into the blackness, dead-eyed and bemused, without knowledge, without feeling. Then the memory of his adventure came to him in a single, searing flash of violence and peril, and Loam sat bolt upright, gasping as though doused in freezing water. He flailed his arms and kicked his legs, breathing with his voice; a blind mess of survival instincts and child-like terror. Hard, dry walls stopped him from scurrying around on his backside, and he raked them with his fingernails until the stone became an iron lattice, gritty with rust and unyielding to whatever force he applied to it. And suddenly his mind became as clear as his eyes were dark: he was the Gerudo’s prisoner, walled up in the bowels of the Arbiter’s Grounds after beating their monster, but breaking his —

     His arm. His arm was healed.

     ‘What?’ he gasped, sliding down the bars into a crouch.

     He clutched it and experienced a twinge of tenderness, the frail and heavy sensation of repair. But the break was no more, he could be certain of that, and truth of it was so astonishing he forgot his predicament for the moment and simply marvelled.

     ‘You’re welcome,’ said a man’s voice right in front of him.

     ‘ _GAH!’_

     Loam crumpled against the bars in shock, and swung a reflexive right hook that landed squarely in the palm of somebody’s hand. It was large and warm, with smooth skin, and its grip firm but benign.

     ‘Easy, now,’ said the voice. ‘Get your breath back.’

     ‘Who are you?’ hissed Loam, wrenching his fist away and scampering to one side. His heart thudded painfully. The darkness was not resolving into shapes or even shadows; there was no adjustment, just the blotches and stars of total blindness.

     ‘A prisoner like yourself,’ the man replied. ‘My name is Requiem.’

     ‘Requiem,’ repeated Loam.

     ‘That’s right.’

     His voice was possessed of the most peculiar cadence: the wisdom of age and the lightness of youth all at the same time. Loam dry swallowed and counted to ten, flexing his fingers and his ears, willing his body toward obedience — and then, despite himself, he made the decision to trust this Requiem from the outset, for no other reason than his maleness in this place.

     ‘I’m Loam.’

     ‘Loam,’ said the other, as if testing out the word on his tongue. ‘Welcome, Loam. Are you feeling all right?’

     ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘not really.’ He grazed the back of his hand down the bars, letting touch do the work of sight. ‘How long have I been out?’

     ‘Difficult to tell down here,’ said Requiem. ‘But a while. A day and a night, at a guess.’

 _A day and a night._ The very idea was too horrifying to contemplate. The Resistance, if they survived, would have returned to the Prince empty-handed by now, with a wounded Sheikah and a missing Loam to add to the agony of his sister’s ongoing imprisonment. Loam tried to imagine Red’s reaction, but simply could not conjure enough fury and despair to requirement. And what of the Princess? What would even another hour in the company of murderers and pagans mean for her innocent life?

     He drew an enormous, shuddering breath, and was still.

     ‘How were you captured?’ wondered Requiem after a small pause. ‘Was it a raiding party?’

     ‘Not quite,’ replied Loam miserably. ‘I volunteered to come here.’

     ‘Ahh,’ said the other. ‘Volunteered. I see.’ He cleared his throat in what Loam took to be a gesture of awkwardness.

     ‘It’s kind of a long story. I was — I’m sorry, but _did you really heal my arm_?’

     ‘Yes,’ said Requiem, ‘I did.’

     ‘How?’

     ‘It’s not so hard, if you know what you’re doing. My kind have a … _talent_ , I suppose, is one way of putting it.’

     ‘Okay. And…what kind is your kind?’

     Requiem was silent for a moment, and in the pitch blackness the silence was a weight that pressed in on all sides.

     ‘Travellers,’ he decided at last. ‘Or vagrants, if you like. From a long way west of here. I was part of a caravan, moving from the sea through the endless waste, searching for the green land of legend.’

     ‘Hyrule,’ said Loam.

     ‘If you say so. My father had a dream, a prophetic dream — “blood and shadow,” he said, but light and life as well. Destiny and belonging. Waiting for us in the green land. So we left — he, my younger brother and I, along with a company of merchants. We had been journeying for many months when we fell afoul of the Gerudo. I was captured. To this day, I don’t know what became of my family.’

     Silence again. Loam pondered all he had heard, and felt a stab of pity for his faceless companion.

     ‘Please excuse me,’ said Requiem. He sounded dull and unhappy. ‘I haven’t done a lot of speaking lately.’

     ‘It’s all right,’ said Loam. ‘I — I’m sorry. For all that’s happened to you, I’m really sorry. And thank you,’ he added, rubbing his forearm. ‘Thanks for healing me. I was having a hard enough time with everything in tact!’

     ‘Don’t mention it.’

     Before another word of conversation could be uttered, there came a drawn-out metallic groan from someplace beyond their cell, and within moments a low orange light began to creep into the corners of their surroundings. Loam shuffled away from the bars and tensed himself in readiness, as the source of the light appeared around the bend and filtered into his prison through a grid of flickering shadows. Three Gerudo warriors peered inside, their fine eyebrows arched in an attitude of supremacy. Flanked by her torch-bearing companions, the one in the middle jangled a ring of long silver keys meaningfully, the corners of her white mouth upturned such a way that Loam was afraid for his life all over again.

     ‘Hello, boys,’ she cooed. She eyed Loam with interest, and appeared to be making her mind up about something. ‘You’re awake, then. I shall have to alert the Mistress. As for _you_ …’ she added, beckoning with her head at Requiem, ‘…you know what time it is.’

     Loam turned to look at him as he stood to his feet. In the firelight, he saw a young man — just a handful of years older than himself — wearing only brown cotton trousers that stopped at the knee. His long back was as smooth as marble, and the muscles beneath it stood out in sharp relief between dark grooves. Platinum blonde hair, as bright as snow or silver, was cut short but uneven, as Zelda’s had been by her captors. He approached the gate without a word as the woman unlocked it, and was led out before Loam could catch a glimpse of his face.

     The light began to fade as the torchbearers escorted him away from the cell, but the keeper of the keys lingered behind, her keen yellow eyes glittering even in the gloom. She turned the key in the lock with an ominous _chunk_ , and winked at Loam.

     ‘Musn’t fret, now,’ she whispered. ‘Your time’ll come.’

     Then she turned on the ball of her bare foot and disappeared as the shroud of darkness enveloped him once more.

     Time passed, in which Loam took to pacing. As best he could tell, his prison was about the size of his own bedroom, a hundred miles and many millions of years away in Ordon Village. He stumbled over a clay jar of stale water and drank deeply from it, noting that the breath from his nostrils as he gulped had a panicked and erratic quality to it. Down here, in the black Void that was the Royal Family’s own dungeon complex, his imagination was as vivid as his waking eyes in the light of day. Visions of a lifetime wasting away in blindness and solitude circled him like carrion birds, and he wept for his fate in a tight and shallow succession of gasps until the unseen door groaned open for the second time, and firelight diffused down the corridor and into his cell.

     Loam barely had time to wipe away the tears before the key was turning in the lock, and the Gerudo shoved Requiem back inside. The young man staggered and fell, landing hard on his side at Loam’s feet, completely naked and shiny with sweat. One of the torchbearers tossed his trousers in after him, and the women laughed and whistled unkindly as he struggled to pull them on, his fine jaw set in an expression of furious embarrassment.

     ‘Until tomorrow, loverboy,’ smirked the keeper of the keys. She took the torch from one of her companions and mounted it in a bracket on the opposite wall. ‘I’ll just leave this here. Give you boys a chance to get properly acquainted.’

     She blew them both a kiss and waggled her dainty fingers, then departed with her sisters.

     Requiem stood up and approached the bars, wrapping his fists around the highest point they could reach and dropping his head, as though bound to a whipping post. He drew hard breaths through his teeth as Loam looked on, aghast. The man truly was of powerful build; athletic, but rangy also, leaner than was entirely healthy — he looked to Loam like a dangerous wildcat gone to seed in captivity.

     ‘Are you hurt?’ Loam asked him.

     ‘ _I’m fine,_ ’ snapped Requiem. The harshness visibly melted away the moment he had spoken, his fists opening to palms and trailing down the iron grille in resignation. ‘Fine,’ he said a second time. ‘But thank you.’

     He turned around and looked Loam full in the face for the first time. Handsome in an angular way, solemn and brooding, Requiem had the appearance of a sculpture carved in the likeness of nobility. His eyes were dark and fierce, and in shadow they could have been any colour. When he inclined his face to the firelight, however, the truth became plain, and shocking beyond words: red the colour of fresh blood, a fierce and burning red, red the precise shade of Whisper’s eyes —

     The red eyes of the Sheikah.

     ‘Oh, my gods,’ murmured Loam.

     ‘If it’s all the same to you,’ said Requiem, who had misread Loam’s thunderstruck expression as one of concern, ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

     He shuffled to the nearest wall and slid down it until he was seated, letting the sweat cool and vanish from his bare torso. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Loam spent these moments examining everything in the guttering light, squirrelling memories away to be recalled the next time it disappeared. But his mind was distracted, even racing. _Another Sheikah_ , it kept repeating. What would it mean for the Hylian Royal Family to meet him, to welcome him? And what had the Gerudo been _doing_ to him since they took him as their prisoner?

     ‘How long have you been down here?’ he asked.

     ‘Like I said before,’ said Requiem, ‘it’s hard to keep track of time. But I’ve been in this forsaken place for as long as they have, and they settled here in the dead of winter.’

     ‘Nearly a year, then,’ said Loam, shaking his head. ‘I can’t even imagine…’

     ‘You may not have to. I don’t know what their plans are for you, except to say that you won’t be leaving.’ He leaned his head back and sighed deeply through his nostrils. ‘I’m sorry, Loam. I hope, at least, that I can be an agreeable companion for you for as long as we share this dungeon.’

 

* * *

 

     The hours took on a strange, elastic quality. For the first time, Loam could appreciate how dependent he was upon the passage of the sun and moon to make sense of his life. Growing up, Colin had told all manner of stories about the Days of Endless Night; “the Twilight,” he called it, a sinister dream-like state of being, a heavy dimness of the eyes that never went away. Was this what he meant?

     In Requiem, at least, Loam had found a friend, and the two young men spent a great deal of time bonding over everything that had befallen them. Requiem spoke of the desolate places even farther west than Hyrule’s desert provinces, past red mountains and valleys, to the edge of the world where bitter salt waves beat against shanty towns and the wreckage of civilisations long gone. He had survived there all his life with his small family, a fragile existence of temporary alliances, narrow escapes, and constant peril. In light of this, Loam felt bizarrely ashamed of his own upbringing, and tried not to describe the gentle streams, grassy meadows and lush woodland of Ordon in too-great detail.

     ‘So there is a green land,’ said Requiem, his eyes pensive and stormy. ‘Father was right. And here am I, just a stone’s throw away from it, rotting away in this cell!’ He scoffed and looked away. ‘Irony of ironies. Curse every woman in this place, except your Princess.’

     At long intervals, the prison warden would appear, jangling her keys and smiling her wicked smile. Requiem would stand without a word and be led away to another part of the Arbiter’s Grounds, leaving Loam on his own in the terrible dark. After an hour or so, she would return, and roughly deposit her prey on the floor in a far less dignified fashion than she had found him: nude, glistening and dishevelled, his hard face downcast and burning like a brand. Though they exchanged no words on the matter, it soon dawned on Loam what was happening to his friend. In some ways, it left him feeling more terrified and vulnerable than if they had brought him back bruised and bloody.

     When at last his moment came, Loam looked to his friend for strength, and stood to his full height with a stoic face arranged over his hammering heart.

     ‘The Mistress will see you now,’ smiled the warden, and gestured with an open palm at the corridor.

 

 

 


	17. The Deal

 

     Marching through the Arbiter’s Grounds, Loam took in everything.

     The corridors were low-set, like catacombs, and seemed purpose built to confuse the unwary, branching away multiple times in many directions — all of them dark. Odd runes marked the passage walls on either side, and Loam examined them in the passing firelight, imprinting them onto his sensory memory should he get the chance to escape at a later time. Some he recognised — the three-triangle crest of the Hylian Royal Family occasionally appeared, crooked but legible — but others were a mystery, written in dead languages or hieroglyphs; horned beasts and the crude outline of warriors were a recurring theme. In some places, a continuous rail ran the length of whole rooms, embedded in the walls. He wondered what it was for.

     Death was a presence in this place. An ancient presence, to be sure, but somehow more sinister for it.

     The warden sauntered on ahead. She was a small woman with a slightly beaky nose, but her body had the hard, sensuous quality of all the Gerudo, with the same golden brown skin and flaming hair. In the moments where Loam trained his eyes on her instead of their surroundings, he was careful to keep his gaze fixed above her shoulders. Neither she, nor her two lieutenants, said a word. He had felt so sure they would; a taunt, a delicate threat. But the silence persisted, broken by nothing more than their footsteps and the crackling of torches. Only after a dozen turns through the labyrinth did she address him.

     ‘The Mistress’ chambers,’ she announced, gesturing at the high stone door blocking their way. ‘You will show respect.’

     Loam remained stony-faced. The torchbearers stepped around him and pressed their right hands to the door. With a simultaneous jolt from both, it rumbled upward and disappeared into its threshold, raining crumbs of masonry down from the ceiling in the process. Light the colour of deepest sunset streamed out, causing Loam to squint for a moment. Then he goggled unselfconsciously at what it revealed.

     Utter luxury lay before him. The room, about the size of his own quarters in Hyrule Castle, was splendid well beyond the reach of that bare and cheerless place. It was crowded with plunder — piles of gold doubloons, silver and purple Rupees, sceptres, idols, crowns, artefacts, and the spoils of a hundred nations formed a glittering ring around a velvet settee piled high with tasselled silk cushions. Tapestries covered the walls, elaborately patterned and priceless, and the ceiling was hazy with the smoke from a dozen bowls of incense. The force of the heat and fragrance brought tears to Loam’s eyes; stepping in from the chilly maze felt like being enveloped in richly perfumed dragon’s breath.

     In the middle stood Fierra, the master of the dungeon and the woman at the heart of all of Loam’s troubles since the very beginning. She was waiting for him beside a table laid with fine food: clusters of grapes, a great haunch of meat that glistened with oil, and jewel-studded goblets of deep red wine. Once again, he was reminded of why he preferred monsters as adversaries — her preposterous beauty caused his hatred to churn together with desire, and then with shame and fear, all of which played out on his face in a series of small twitches.

     ‘Welcome,’ she smiled, demure in what Loam considered the most predatory way imaginable. ‘Won’t you have a drink?’ She proffered a goblet with one hand and clicked her fingers with the other. A veiled guard appeared from the shadows and took the cup from her hand to Loam’s in total silence, eyeing him with murderous intent before melting back into the shadows. ‘Be sure to savour it,’ Fierra instructed him. ‘There are only a handful of bottles of Toronbo cherry wine left in the world. You have to kill to get your hands on one — as, of course, we did.’

     Loam looked into his cup, gazing at his own quivering reflection in the surface of the almost black liquid.

     ‘Where’s Zelda?’ he asked.

     ‘Not here. Drink.’

     He scowled, but only to hide his apprehension. ‘Is it poison?’

     Even as the words were leaving his mouth, he felt like a gigantic idiot. Fierra seemed to think so too, fixing him with a look so droll he wanted to stand in the corner and face the wall.

     ‘Poison is for killing in secret,’ she reminded him, as a mother might remind a child. ‘It’s not really a priority of mine down here. I could whistle a certain note and have you strangled to death with your own bowels, for example. But I won’t — not for the time being, at least. Now, drink. Before I start to lose my patience.’

     There was nothing else for it. Wincing, Loam raised the goblet to his lips and sipped a measure, discovering at once that it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted, combining everything he loved about the forest in the summertime into a heady nectar. Fierra smirked, and took her own goblet from the table.

     ‘My sisters feel that I have been remiss in keeping you alive,’ she began. ‘They have been in my ear for days now about repaying you for the insult you dealt us all by even coming here, let alone destroying our Knuckle in the arena.’ She began to circle him slowly, tracing a finger around the goblet’s rim all the while. ‘But I have not bent to their wishes — it is _they_ who are remiss for forgetting the ancient ways, the code of our forebears. In the olden times, we rewarded outsiders for their daring. Anyone who made it past the Gerudo was deserving of respect, not vengeance. I am a firm believer in this.’

     Loam narrowed his eyes as she passed behind him, not fully understanding. ‘So…so what you’re saying is…I’m worthy of your respect?’

     A breath escaped her nostrils, short and unmistakably amused. ‘Perhaps you are. I haven’t decided. Right now, what you are is a curiosity — and I do not kill curiosities right away as a matter of courtesy. Only when they prove to be dull, or a fraud, or a fluke do I pass final judgment.’

     ‘I’ve got nothing to prove to you,’ he said flatly.

     ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she corrected him. ‘Your life, and the life of that dreary little marshmallow, Zelda, depend entirely on just what you can prove to me in this place. Do you understand what I’m saying? This is what we in the death business call a _reprieve_. I am going to spare you, for as long as you merit being spared.’

     Loam’s heart was beating a persistent tattoo now, and he watched her with wide eyes that were partly wary, but mostly terrified. In the pit of his stomach he experienced the irresistible sense that a negotiation was about to take place, and felt small and slow and desperate for counsel.

     ‘Merit,’ he repeated. ‘What do you mean, “merit”?’

     ‘A test,’ she said, stopping directly in front of him and fixing him with a look of dark glee. ‘Three of them. _Trials_ , to use their technical term. An ancient rite of my people. A coming of age.’

     ‘What kind of trials?’

     ‘Oh, a little of this, a little of that,’ she replied, waving a fine hand over her shoulder. ‘A selection of challenges to test the qualities we, as warriors, most prize. Let’s call them —’ (and here an exultant grin split her mouth, as though she were indulging in some private joke) ‘— _Courage, Wisdom and Power_. _’_

     He held his breath and searched both her eyes, back and forth, but could divine no more than she had already shared.

     ‘Three trials,’ he said aloud.

     ‘Three.’

     ‘Hard ones?’

     ‘Oh, yes.’ She bowed her head, whether to contain an even bigger smile or not Loam couldn’t tell. ‘Yes, nothing for the faint of heart. I’m afraid failure is as high a likelihood as you can get before turning into certainty.‘

     ‘And if I beat them,’ said Loam, ignoring her, ‘I get to go home?’

     ‘But of course. It would hardly be a mark of my respect if your reward were to carry on rotting away downstairs. Survive my trials, and you can cartwheel out the door at your leisure, with your precious Princess bundled up in a rucksack like a litter of puppies.’

     ‘And Requiem, too,’ he added without even thinking.

     Fierra’s teasing smile faded for the first time. She arched an eyebrow and quirked her head to one side.

     ‘“ _Requiem_?”’she said, uncomprehending. ‘And what, pray, is a “Requiem?” Is that supposed to mean something?’

     A flash of outrage ran its course from head to toe within, causing Loam’s fists to clench. _She hasn’t even learned his name.._.

     ‘He’s my fellow captive, down in the dungeons,’ he replied in a slightly constricted voice. ‘The one your girls have their fun with every other night. If I make it out the other side of these trials alive, he _and_ the Princess are coming with me.’

     The Gerudo Queen did not look the least bit impressed. ‘I realise this is the first time you’ve been taken prisoner, so put your thinking cap on for a minute and let’s consider — is it the cap _tive_ or the cap _tor_ who gets to lay down the conditions for release, do you suppose?’

     Loam narrowed his eyes, standing his ground against her withering sarcasm.

     ‘I get that I’m not in a position to bargain,’ he said carefully. ‘So humour me. If these tasks of yours are as hard as you make out, you don’t stand to lose a whole lot, do you? We could wager pretty much anything, and it won’t affect the bottom line.’ He licked his lips and chanced to add: ‘Unless you’re worried I’ll succeed.’

     Fierra grinned like a skull, her liquid eyes aflame with relish. ‘Oh, very good,’ she said softly. ‘Yes, that’s excellent. Poke me right in my pride, and I’ll be putty in your hands. Everyone knows that arrogant bimbos such as myself can’t resist a challenge. You’ve really got me where you want me now, haven’t you, you clever lad?’

     He scowled, feeling stupid again. Fierra took a cluster of grapes from a gold dish and began to pop them into her mouth, one after the other, an expression of enormous enjoyment on her perfect face.

     ‘What in the world makes you think this _Requiem_ wishes to leave, anyway?’ she wondered aloud as she chewed. ‘He’s hardly doing it tough. I mean, let’s be honest here: any other man would run a pike through his own mother to enjoy even _half_ the action he does of an evening.’ She made him a saucy wink. ‘If you catch my meaning.’

     ‘So go out and get any other man,’ Loam shot back. ‘But if I beat your tasks, Requiem comes with me. Deal?’

     ‘You’ve known this fellow for, what is it now — a week? I’m curious: what qualities does he possess, that you should care a jot for his fate?’

     ‘It’s not about qualities,’ said Loam, finding his voice in earnest now. ‘I barely know the Princess, either, but that didn’t stop me risking everything to save her. No-one in this world deserves to be locked up in the dark by the likes of you.’

     ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Compassion! The crowning virtue of the soon-to-be extinct.’ She propped herself up on the table and opened her legs slightly, which almost caused Loam’s composure to fold. ‘You pale folk are all the same: bleeding hearts and bunny rabbits, down to the last man. Tend the sick, revile the strong, isn’t that your life’s code? It’s a wonder you didn’t die out centuries ago.’

     ‘ _Do we have a deal?’_ he demanded, glaring at her.

     Fierra smoothed down the front of her floaty cotton trousers, and looked momentarily pensive. ‘That surly young stud has gifted us with a dozen newborns in less than a year. I should be loath to part with him.’

     Loam’s eyes widened a fraction; the revelation was simply too unbelievable to let pass. ‘So that’s what you’re doing,’ he said quietly. ‘You’re using him to build your army.’

     She smirked. ‘The daughters of Din will rise again and reclaim the whole of the West, if we haven’t already,’ she said. ‘But daughters don’t make themselves, as I’m sure even a doe-eyed cupcake like you would understand.’

     ‘Just daughters?’ he wondered, despite himself. ‘What happens to the boys?’

     A moment passed, in which Fierra’s permanent cool became something else, but only faintly so; her golden eyes sharpening in a way that made Loam feel as though his words had hit a nerve.

     ‘There are no boys,’ she said simply. Then, with an enigmatic smile, she added, ‘Not since the last one.’

     They held one another’s gaze for some time. The Gerudo’s fierce beauty seemed to emanate an almost physical heat, and Loam experienced the wild, irrational fear that he might collapse at her feet and pledge himself to her use forever without meaning to. When at last she spoke, her tone was indifferent, even bored.

     ‘Very well, then, I’ll buy into your little bargain. Despite your absurdly transparent attempt to manipulate me a moment ago, you did make a somewhat salient point: the tests I’m about to lay down for you will almost certainly spell your doom, and thus, I stand to lose nothing, whatever the wager.’ She downed her wine to the dregs and sighed luxuriously, fixing him with a malicious, harlequin grin. ‘We have an accord, then! If you succeed, I promise safe passage back to the green world for you, the girl, and — yes, go on — even our golden goose, the one you call Requiem.’

     As discreetly as possible, Loam released the breath he had been holding. He nodded once, and the negotiations were complete. Fierra’s demeanour became somehow more feline than before, her smile sly as though she had been energised by the exchange. Sliding from the table, she sashayed slowly up to him, allowing her fingertips to trail against the cotton fabric of her trousers. Loam stood up straighter and refrained from swallowing, anxious the gesture would cause his throat to leap. Instead, he held her gaze again, was mesmerised by it, even as she came within arm’s reach, and her animal scent — jasmine, lilac, pepper, apricots — overcame him. She regarded him, and appeared satisfied, even triumphant.

     ‘But,’ she whispered, tracing the tip of her tongue from one side of her mouth to the other, ‘you will not succeed.’

     The moment she clicked her fingers, strong arms looped around both Loam’s elbows. He was hoisted from his feet and dragged backwards from the room, startling him into dropping the goblet, though barely enough to shake him from his spellbound condition.

     ‘Let the games begin!’ Fierra called after him, before the stone door fell and hid her from his sight.

 

 


	18. Dark Tomorrows

 

     ‘What kind of trials?’ asked Requiem.

     ‘I don’t know,’ replied Loam. ‘The kind you don’t come back from, by the sounds.’

     They sat facing one another on the floor of their shared cell, their elbows propped up on their knees. Shallow plates consisting of hardtack and some kind of desert seeds lay half-eaten between them. Beyond the bars, the torch guttered in its bracket, the last of its fuel blackening the wall with soot. Requiem nodded to himself, staring at a corner as he processed all he had heard.

     ‘You took a big risk, bargaining for my freedom,’ he said at length.

     Loam shrugged. ‘I guess.’

     ‘You did!’ The Sheikah’s beguiling red eyes locked onto his; he sounded vehement. ‘She could have walked back on the whole arrangement — your only hope of leaving here with the Princess, gone! — all for my sake. Win or lose, it’s a beautiful gesture. You have my thanks.’

     ‘Yeah, well,’ said Loam quietly. He shifted, so that his chin and mouth were buried in his folded arms. ‘A gesture’s all it’ll ever be, I think. Whatever she’s got lined up, it didn’t sound altogether…survivable.’

     A stab of panic caused him to stand suddenly to his feet. He breathed through gritted teeth, running his palms slowly down his face. ‘She really got to me in there,’ he confided. ‘She’s…’

     ‘A goddess,’ finished Requiem, looking grim.

     ‘ _Yes._ I can’t — _think_ — when I look at her! I hate her for everything she’s done, everything she stands for. But when she talks, and when she… _walks…_ I can’t…’

     ‘Loam,’ said the other, holding up a calming hand. ‘Loam, it’s all right. I understand. All too well do I understand. Please, sit down.’

     Loam flopped against the wall and slid back down to the floor.

     ‘Listen to me,’ Requiem continued. ‘Whatever feelings that woman stirs in you, you must never forget that she means you only harm, all of the time. She will add to your struggle with her charms, I know it. You are a survivor, and she fears this, I think, and so you must be especially careful in the moments between trials, when she has you on your own.’ He leant forward, and spoke in a low and deadly voice. ‘Her beauty is the greatest deceit of all. I have seen her heart — she is a serpent, a powerful witch, and she will not tolerate the insult of defeat. Do you understand me?’

     Requiem’s words, the intensity of them, the implications, crashed over Loam in cold waves. ‘I can’t,’ he repeated numbly, shaking his head. ‘When she’s near me…I can’t tell truth from lies, up from down…’

     ‘I know,’ said Requiem. ‘But I can help.’

     Loam frowned, uncomprehending. Requiem rose slowly from his position on the floor and crossed to the far corner of the cell. He felt along the bricks with his fingertips for a moment, before settling on one and giving it a brisk smack with the side of his hand. A chalky scraping noise accompanied its removal, and from the cavity behind he produced a small brown bag.

     ‘Whoa,’ said Loam, forgetting his turmoil for a moment. ‘Has that always been there?’

     ‘No,’ replied the other, taking his seat opposite. ‘It was the only possession of mine I was able to keep concealed when they imprisoned me.’ He upended the bag, and from it a stone about the size of a Rupee fell into his palm. ‘It belonged to my mother, supposedly. What do you think?’

     He passed it to Loam, who examined it in both hands. Half of it was coarse and dull, the speckled brown-white of dried bird droppings. The other half had been cut into smooth facets, revealing the stone to be a dazzling jewel, bright magenta in colour and translucent as springwater.

     ‘It’s amazing,’ admitted Loam. ‘Is it…powerful? Magical, I mean?’

     ‘Yes,’ said Requiem plainly. ‘In its most refined form, it can be used as a lens to reveal the secrets of even the spirit world around us — or so the legend goes. As it is, the stone will merely change colour in the presence of deception. Bind it to your wrist. Watch it carefully, especially when she is speaking. You must never be taken in by her…no matter how loudly your body may protest.’

 

* * *

 

     Hours passed, in which Loam slept fitfully. Something was stirring in his dreams — shadows in corners, voices behind walls. He caught snatches of Hyrule’s blue sky, and recoiled when it turned the colour of bad meat. Someone was speaking; a mouth with many fangs, enunciating slowly, but in the garbled mess of his unconscious, he heard only murmuring, as though he were encased in a bubble. It wasn’t until an open palm struck him clean across the face that the bubble burst, and he was released, gasping, into the horror of his waking life.

     ‘Good morning,’ said Fierra. ‘Dreadfully sorry to wake you, but you have a date with destiny — and she’s a stickler for punctuality.’

     She was crouched over him, flanked by two torchbearers who stood gloating in the firelight. Requiem sat in the corner behind them, half-concealed in shadow, a single red eye trained on the scene. He did not move, though the muscles in his arms and chest were taut.

     Loam breathed like he’d climbed a mountain, pausing and holding with every gasp, until at last he nodded his understanding. He braced his hands against the walls and stood, Fierra standing with him and smiling her satisfaction. She turned on the ball of her foot, her enormous ponytails whipping him smartly across the face, and the four of them departed, leaving Requiem in darkness.

     ‘It’s wonderful that you agreed to do this,’ said Fierra conversationally. She strode on ahead into the black warren of the Arbiter’s Grounds with a noticeable spring in her step, an oddly girlish gesture. ‘I was up all night devising games that we might play. Certainly, this old place provides adequate material. Oh yes, indeed…’

     The torchbearers brought up the rear, leaving Loam hemmed in before and behind, an awkward and isolated figure in the bowels of a labyrinth that was now visibly descending, the corridor sloping so that he staggered occasionally. It became colder with every step; before long, his breath began to disperse in pale clouds from his nose. Fierra was unperturbed, despite her minimal dress. At last, she came to a standstill, moments before the circle of torchlight caught her up and illumined a high stone archway, the cavern beyond the black of mourning.

     ‘Courage,’ she said pointedly, tracing her fingertips along the ridges of stone, ‘is not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it. Dominion over dread, even mortal dread, is the first rite of passage for my people. So shall it be for you.’

     She jerked her head at her lieutenants. ‘Leave us,’ she ordered.

     The women circled around Loam and placed their torches in either of their leader’s outstretched hands. Bowing smartly at the waist, they departed back the way they had come in total darkness — but not before they had bestowed upon Loam a most unexpected gift.

     The Ordon Sword, still in its dirt-caked scabbard, was pressed into his chest in passing. He stumbled back a step and clutched it clumsily. At first he didn’t believe what he was seeing: the treasured blade, the great relic of his own people, back in his hands with his enemy unarmed and unaided at closer than stabbing distance…

     ‘It would be sweet, wouldn’t it?’ Fierra observed with a grim smile, as if reading his thoughts. ‘On balance, though, I don’t think the satisfaction would be worth it. You’d never find your way out of this place alive, less so with the Princess at your side. Best put it out of your mind for now.’

     He glared at her and fastened the scabbard to his side. ‘So, what do you want me to do?’ he grunted.

     ‘It’s quite simple,’ she said, passing one of the torches to him so that her left hand was free to gesture. ‘For your first task, I need you to play handyman. My girls and I have been wanting to access the lower levels since we arrived — the basement, the inner sanctum, call it what you like — but so far, we’ve not met with a great deal of success. There’s something down there, you see.’

     Loam felt his lungs constrict. ‘What kind of something?’

     Fierra quirked her head at him like a child. ‘Not the good kind, I’m afraid,’ she replied quietly. ‘I sent four girls down the previous spring, a hunting party, some of my best and brightest. To my extreme irritation, only one came back…and believe you me, she’s not been the same since. For months, the only word the poor addled fool could say was “ _Poe_.”’

     ‘A ghost,’ said Loam. His voice sounded reedy to his ears; soon he would be rasping.

     ‘Just so. A phantom unlike any seen before. I myself have seen a thousand-and-one Poes out there in the desert wastes — mischievous imps of things, with their lanterns and their cowls and their shrewd little eyes. They are unremarkable. Even the aggressive ones are trifling: they take on tangible form at ten paces, and can be destroyed with a well-aimed arrow or even the stroke of a sword.’

     She looked over her shoulder, and for the first time the shadow of a genuinely troubled look marred the smoothness of her face.

     ‘But this is an evil place, no doubt about it,’ she finished. ‘Death and suffering leave a stain, and those stains can curdle and fester and become like creeping fungus over time. Whatever is down there is as dangerous as anything in this world. I think it should prove a sporting distraction for a man of your talents.’

     ‘Great. Thanks.’

     She produced a glass bottle stoppered with a cork from her floaty trousers and placed it in his hand. ‘Should you succeed — and I’m sure you will! — you are to bring me back the creature’s soul in this bottle. This is essential: I will not count the trial a success without it.’ She stepped aside and gestured broadly at the entryway. ‘Take all the time you need. I will be waiting.’

     Loam stared miserably into it, observing a single step in the firelight; the start of a descent into some unthinkable lair. Sorrow mixed with defiance coloured the ugly look he gave her as he stalked past.

     ‘Guess I’ll be seeing you,’ he grunted over his shoulder.

     ‘Yes,’ she nodded after him. ‘That’s what they said last time.’

 

* * *

 

 

     The cold took on a supernatural quality barely moments after the glimmer of Fierra’s torch had vanished from the top of the passageway. Journeying down the stairwell, which was longer than Loam could have guessed, the corners of his glasses began to frost over. The flames of his torch trembled and shrunk as though caught in a high wind, though the air was still. It was an apt picture of Loam’s own spirits — a powerful urge to turn tail and run coursed through his body, right to the very ends of his nerves, and when at last the steps gave way to level ground his legs had the rubbery, knock-kneed bearing of childlike terror.

     There was no telling how large the room he had entered truly was, except that the sound of boots on stone reverberated far and high before him. Immediately, he knew the skin-crawling sensation of being watched by the kind of eyes for which darkness was of little consequence. He held his torch high and turned on the spot, casting its guttering light over pillars of rock, bare plinths and a raised dais. There was no sand down here. It was oddly immaculate, like a vast spare room untroubled by the comings and goings of the world above. The last time anything living set foot down here was…well, the last time.

 _I sent four girls down the previous spring…only one came back_ …

     The words churned blackly in the front of his mind, almost to the tempo of the heartbeat in his ears. He exhaled through pursed lips, watching the blue fog linger and fade, turning the Ordon Sword in his hand in a gesture of hair-trigger readiness. Whatever became of those girls he never wished to know, any more than he wanted to share their fate.

     And then, just like that, they appeared.

     With both hands occupied, Loam could not cover his mouth as he wanted. So he merely stood there, his face distorted into a rictus of fear, and said, ‘Ahh,’ low and toneless, several times in succession. It was the best suppressed scream he could manage.

     Three desiccated corpses lay before him in the circle of firelight, all at once familiar and monstrously alien. Their red and green silk clothes were unsullied, the hooked scimitars glinting as though freshly sharpened. But the bodies were a ruin: the characteristic flame hair of the Gerudo was the grey-white of winter slurry, and the usual sun kissed smoothness of their complexion now bore the shrunken, puckered appearance of dates or walnuts. It was not the skin that horrified him the most, even as it clung to their skeletons, bloodless and devoid of organs. Neither was it the eye sockets, vacant, crust-ringed holes as wide around as a child’s fist.

     No, what chilled Loam to the core was the various attitudes of horror and torment that was evident from the way the bodies were posed, the moment of death on display before him, frozen and permanent. One lay curled in a ball, arms crossed over her face protectively; still another lay half-twisting, gazing back over her shoulder to behold the last thing she would ever see. In the middle, the nearest to Loam was on all fours, one withered hand raised in his direction, as if beseeching him: _help us._ All three mouths were opened wide. He could practically hear their screams reverberating in the darkness.

     ‘Ha,’ he said numbly. ‘Haaaa.’

     The cold had turned penetrating. It seared his skin, gripping him, draining him of wit and nerve and leaving only paralysis in its wake. Loam lifted a foot with tremendous effort and made to face away from the grim scene before him.

     No sooner had he turned than he came face-to-face with another young man.

     Too shocked to cry out or even stagger backward, Loam flinched hard with his sword arm, an ungainly but no less lethal sideways slash that caught the newcomer’s weapon exactly at the tip, white sparks raining out from the point of impact. The two of them stood there, blades locked, appraising the other with wide and fearful eyes.

     Fully a minute passed before Loam realised he was looking into his own reflection.

     He lowered his sword, feeling sickly satisfied to observe the mirror image do likewise, and for a long moment he examined himself, noting the shadows around his eyes, the gauntness that was the result of his imprisonment. His hair was ruffled, and desert dirt streaked his fair cheeks. Despite his circumstances, Loam couldn’t help but manage a small, sad smile at himself — Ordon’s champion, alone in a haunted dungeon, awaiting certain death. He sheathed his sword and massaged his eyes with thumb and forefinger, practiced breathing in and out, in and out. Finishing, he stared blearily back at the mirror — and felt his heart turn to ice.

     His reflection was still smiling.

     This time he did stagger, and cried out also, though the sound was like a field mouse being crushed underfoot. The figure’s grin broadened, became a smirk, and then a leer. It was an expression unlike any that had crossed Loam’s true face, full of contempt, even malice. Soon, the false Loam’s shoulders began to shake with silent laughter. As this was happening, the composition of its face and body began to transform, a subtle and fluid motion — the eyes slanted and became lighter in colour, the nose grew longer and oddly beaky. The ruffled copper hair grew in length; Loam watched in dumb disbelief as it poured smoothly from the figure’s scalp and twisted together into a braid down its back, just as its complexion turned the reddish-brown of baked clay and the eyebrows thickened and curled into points. Two inches were added in height, and another two again in the breadth of the shoulders. Loam’s careworn blue tunic rearranged itself to become a studded black vest, revealing powerfully muscled arms covered in runic tattoos. His cotton trousers turned black also, and a mail skirt of brown leather appeared between the legs.

     When the transformation was complete, the man in the mirror bore only a passing resemblance to what it had been. Eventually, the silent laughter died from its face, but the leer remained. It removed the silver-rimmed glasses from the bridge of its nose and dropped them to the ground, crushing them beneath the heel of its boot in a desultory fashion. Then it turned on a pivot with a flourish of a long, dark cape that had not been there a moment ago. It began to stride away, sword in one hand, torch in the other, apparently without sparing Loam another thought.

     ‘Hey,’ croaked Loam, scarcely finding his voice. ‘Hey, where are you going?’

     The figure of the young man cast a glance over one shoulder, still grinning. With a jerk of its head, it beckoned Loam to follow along. At first, Loam did not understand. He reached out his hand cautiously, waiting to feel the cold glass of the mirror's surface at his fingertips. But there was nothing there, no dividing line between reality and the place occupied by the mysterious youth whose torchlight was now disappearing around a corner.

     ‘Wait!’ cried Loam.

     Drawing his own sword with a clear ring of steel, he set off in pursuit. The air was not as cold as it had been; indeed, it was almost temperate. As he approached the corner, Loam experienced a fleeting moment’s hesitation, the sense that he was being lured more than invited. But he did not stop. The moment he rounded the bend, a dazzling light stopped him in his tracks. With a guttural cry, he shielded his eyes with his sword arm, feeling fatally vulnerable and suddenly very stupid. Only when his eyes adjusted was he able to appreciate just how unreal the ordeal had become.

     Now he was outside. In a forest glade.

     He stood at the mouth of a courtyard, its grey stone walls crawling with evergreens. Lumps of masonry fringed with moss suggested that there had once been a ceiling overhead, but now everything was open to the woods beyond — towering beech, oak and cedar trees, their leafy canopy opening in places to let shafts of golden sunlight stream through. Winking fairy lights drifted aimlessly by in the gentle summer’s breeze. The background chatter of sparrows and goldfinches was all at once pleasant and achingly familiar.

     ‘Faron Woods?’ he muttered, utterly perplexed. Then a jolt: ‘An illusion.’

     He tightened his grip on the sword. At the far end of the courtyard, fallen columns half disguised a crooked stairway. He crossed over at a jog and manoeuvred his way up it, appearing at the head of a corridor. The moment he emerged, he cried out in dismay: more dead bodies were strewn up the length of it. Unlike the dry husks of the Gerudo band, these poor souls were fresh — so fresh that Loam observed one twitch before settling into stillness in a pool of her own blood. There were nine of them, one white-haired and sinewy with age, another barely into his teenaged years, with the rest closer in age to Loam. Each was dressed in form-fitting black or blue, their faces masked … and their chests bearing the bleeding-eye insignia of the Sheikah tribe.

_‘What?’_

     The urge to kneel down and unmask of each of them seized him — ( _could Whisper be among them? Or Requiem?)_ — but before he had the opportunity, his attention was drawn to the nearby sound of steel on steel, the yells and grunts of men in mortal combat just beyond the archway at the far end of the passage. Loam broke into a sprint, leaping nimbly over the streams of red that ran rivulets through the gaps in the stone. At ten paces from the exit, he heard the sickening sound of a blade being violently enveloped by flesh, a killing stroke sound, and a sense that he was too late to stop something gravely important came over him like cold water.

     Bursting into a clearing, he laid eyes upon the aftermath of a ferocious battle: the handsome young warrior in black was towelling off his sword — _(the Ordon Sword, he’s still holding the Ordon Sword, but how, that’s my sword, that’s mine) —_ while standing over the body of his victim, a look of immense satisfaction on his swarthy face. The body belonged to a teenaged boy; whoever he was, he lay face down as ruby red blood poured from where the blade had impaled him. Loam could not see his face, only tufts of flaxen hair as it poked out from underneath a long green beanie, the colour of his tunic. The colour of forests.

     ‘What have you done?’ Loam demanded.

     The killer glanced at him and snorted, in no way perturbed by his presence. The blade clean, he threw it aside with a clatter and turned away from the scene of his triumph to the raised dais at the head of the clearing. It was encircled by crisscrossing tree roots and weather-beaten tablets of gold and stone, barely legible traces of Hylian script carved into them under patches of white-green lichen.

     At the top of the dais was a pedestal, and buried in that pedestal was another, far more splendid, sword.

     Only the base of the blade was visible, delicately engraved with the three-triangle crest of the Hylian Royal Family. Its crossbar had been fashioned to look like eagle’s wings, the hilt and pommel a sleek metallic blue. As the black-clad warrior mounted the steps of the dais, he came wide, circling his prize so that Loam could see the look on his face on the approach: ecstatic with victory, the fierce, wild happiness of a heart’s desire finally granted. Emerging behind the pedestal, he bent his knees and took the hilt in both hands, sparing Loam one final, sinister smile, before he pulled it free.

     ‘No, don’t—!’ cried Loam, the words jerked from him in much the same way as the sword from the stone.

     A massive pressurised hiss rocked the clearing, very nearly throwing both men off their feet. From the slit in the pedestal, plumes of black smoke poured forth, swirling and churning, forming a ring around the dais and blocking out the sun in mere moments. It was very apparent that the young warrior had neither expected nor intended this: his cocky grin long gone, he looked upon the scene now with wide-eyed astonishment, even fear. The smoke billowed up behind him, resolving into something almost man-shaped before flashes of fire and lightning issued forth from its depths, and a deep, bellowing laugh — hysterical, insane — echoed from somewhere within, ear-splitting in volume and so terrible Loam wanted to weep like a child. The warrior made to run for his life, but the smoke fell like a swatting hand, consuming him before it coursed forth in a wave of darkness, rollicking toward Loam, who covered his face and screamed at the top of his lungs.

     And then there was silence. Stillness.

     Loam’s scream trailed off, echoing outward into the farthest reach of the cavernous dungeon. The laughter, the monstrous laughter, was somewhere out there too, fading but still indelibly in his mind, in his heart. But the smoke was gone, along with everything else. When he opened his eyes, the only light came from his guttering torch, and the chill was that of glaciers. None of it was real — the woods, the mystic ruin, the bloodthirsty parody of himself. His instincts had deceived him. Something truly malevolent was pulling the strings.

     ‘This is crazy,’ he decided. Then: ‘Help?’

     He was shivering so violently it was as if hands were upon his shoulders, shaking him, willing him to come to his senses. The sensation of being watched had become something electric, causing the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to stand on end, his every nerve charged and fizzing.

     ‘ _Did you show me that?’_ he shouted into the void all of a sudden. ‘What did it mean? Who was the warrior? Huh?’

     More silence, stretching into eternity. He bared his teeth then, channeling all his terror into a careless, manic rage. ‘ _SHOW YOURSELF!’_

     The echo spiralled away on all sides, overlapping like angry conversation. Beneath the clamour, Loam’s keen ears caught the sound of a sudden displacement of air, the muffled _whump_ of bird’s wings, and he knew in that moment that something was moving overhead, had decided to dispense with games and draw the encounter to its grisly climax. He turned on the spot, following it with his face upturned, training his sword tip on where he sensed the presence.

     Then a light appeared, as insubstantial as the sun on a lakebed, soft and blue and forlorn.

     Loam tensed and watched it drift around in slow, wide circles, trailing silver mist in its wake. At first, it appeared not to draw any nearer. Only with seconds to spare did he perceive it was coming right at him. In three drawn-out heartbeats he discerned that the light was a lantern, the lantern was held fast in a fleshless talon, and around the talon something like rotten drapes materialised. What was invisible was finally given form: a mouldering cloak, the blue-grey of a corpse’s lips, with a cowl that concealed all but the mouth of the demon within — a mouth so teeming with fangs it looked like nails and broken glass parting wide to devour him in one swoop.

     The ancient Poe rushed in for the kill.

     Unthinkingly, Loam swung with the torch instead of his sword. Another displacement of air and the creature vanished, though the lantern remained, circling low to the floor, leaving trails of ice like scars on the flagstones. It paused mid-hover as if in contemplation, then began to swing very rapidly on its chain. Loam braced, turned his sword over in readiness, and shifted his weight onto his right foot just as it came at him again.

_They take on tangible form at ten paces, and can be destroyed with a well-aimed arrow or even the stroke of a sword…_

     So it was: the hideous visage came together like an illustration around the lantern, turning from transparent to opaque in the space of just a breath, its silently screaming mouth hanging from its hinge, as wide around as Loam’s whole body. Loam roared, a man’s bellow that broke halfway along and became shrill and comical.

_Courage … not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it … dominion over dread, even mortal dread …_

     A thrust, a flash, a dispersal. The Poe split apart into three streaks of light just inches from the stab of Loam’s sword tip, radiating such a sense of suffering and rage as they passed that his knees buckled. The lights zipped by and regrouped for only a moment, before plunging separately to the ground — right into the withered husks of the Gerudo assassins. Loam swivelled around and watched, horrorstruck, as their corpses gasped as one, a sickening death rattle of a sound, the music of deserts. Bones popped in joints, arms splayed at odd angles, as the puppets staggered to their feet, the gaping holes of their eye sockets trained hungrily upon him.

     … _not the absence of fear, but the mastery of it … dominion over dread, even mortal dread …_

     Even if he survived, Loam knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, the nightmares would never, ever go away. They came at him, shuffling and unsteady, brandishing their blades; ghoulish, hissing marionettes, resurrected but gnarled with decay. The first swung at him and missed. Loam willed his legs to move and turned on a pivot; with an upward slash he bisected her at the stomach, the wound pouring sand and dust as both halves toppled. The second made to strike, but he was mid-dance now, turning expertly again and removing both arms and the head with a figure-eight wave of his sword. He caught the downward swing of the last one’s scimitar and overbalanced slightly as she applied more force than he expected from a wasted shell of a body. Locked steel-to-steel, he stared into her mummified face and felt his stomach clench and turn.

_… dominion over dread, even mortal dread …_

     From the gash that was her mouth, a sound like the mingled voices of ten men issued him a terrible command: ‘ _DIE, NOW.’_

     He recoiled, deflected her blade to the floor, and swung high and wide with his left arm, upending the flaming torch directly into the centre of her forehead. Like parchment, her hair, her clothes, her skin went up in a fireball; he stumbled, collapsed onto his backside and watched as the charred remains flailed for but a moment, before the white-blue light emerged from the carnage and reformed into a lantern, and a monster. It shivered with rage, writhed with it, and in the firelight Loam could see that it had turned completely opaque, as real and hard as his own flesh.

     … _dominion over dread …_

     It dived.

     … _dominion …_

     Loam struggled to stand.

     ‘Dominion,’ he whispered, taking the sword in both hands.

     The blade flashed once, a glint of silver in the phantom light. He felt it pierce through something tangled and damp, felt a shock of cold run through the hilt and into his hands. Dropping it as though burned, he somersaulted out of the way as it clanged to the floor, just as a great wind came rushing into the dungeon from all sides. It gathered into the figure of the Poe, who twisted and thrashed above him, scrabbling with clawed fingers at the hole he had gouged through its chest. Awed, he looked on as the shrieking gale caused it to swell, greater and greater in size, until in a flash it crumpled into nothing, leaving the lantern to fall in slow-motion and explode into a thousand fragments on the floor before him.

     The silence returned, and the dark. But it was not the same as before.

     It had the quality now of an old closet, or a library: musty, idle and innocuous. Dumbly, he stared at the place where the lantern had shattered, saw the sad little vapour that hovered there, lost and blind.

     ‘The soul,’ he realised aloud. His voice was gravel. Trauma coursed through him in powerful aftershocks, made somehow more intense by the stillness, the safety.

     As if in a dream, he produced the glass bottle from his tunic, and shuffled forward on his knees to be beside his prize. Unstoppering the cork, he bent a little gingerly over the light, which stirred for a moment but did not resist as he scooped it up and trapped it inside.

     With nothing left to do, he collected his sword and his torch and went to look for the exit.

 

 


	19. Gerudo for a Day

 

     Requiem was silent all throughout the telling of Loam’s tale, and for a long time after it. When he did at last speak, his tone was unreadable.

     ‘And what did she say when you handed her the bottle?’ he asked.

     ‘Not a lot,’ replied Loam. ‘She held it up to the light and looked it over for a while, said it was “Acceptable.” Then she snapped her fingers, and I was dragged back here.’

     His friend gave an incredulous sniff. He was shaking his head, and for the first time the ghost of a smile teased at the corners of his blood red eyes.

     ‘You,’ he said, ‘are no ordinary fellow.’

     Loam rested his head against the wall and sighed deeply out of his mouth, too exhausted to put on a show of modesty. His body was wracked with the after-effects of deepest anguish; the muscles in his neck a knotty ball, his arms and legs turgid and rubbery.

     ‘It was the worst experience of my life,’ he admitted quietly. ‘And I’ve had it pretty rough lately.’

     Requiem clapped him on the knee. ‘I think you were masterful,’ he said. ‘I mean it, you should take heart. If it’s courage she was looking for, she need look no further—’

     ‘That was the _first trial_ ,’ said Loam, cutting across him. His eyes were closed, his brow knitted into a look of abject misery. ‘The first! Of three! Requiem! Do you have any idea how meaningless it is to congratulate me, like it’s over? I’ve just…prolonged the inevitable, that’s all.’

     The Sheikah gave him a serious look. ‘You have withstood much,’ he said slowly, ‘not only on account of your abilities, but the trueness of your heart. At this rate, I see no reason why the remaining tasks should outmatch you. Do you believe that?’

     ‘No!’ said Loam, without hesitation. ‘The next trial is _Wisdom_. And look, whatever luck I had facing down a bunch of monsters with a sword won’t do me any good when I’m…’ (he grasped for words, gesturing with his hand) ‘…solving riddles, or, I don’t know, lighting torches in the right order, or whatever. I don’t have any wits. I’m just stressed out enough to stab everything in sight, and so far that’s been enough.’

     ‘There’s more to wisdom than just being clever…’

     ‘Well, I don’t have that extra something, either!’ he snapped. Even to his own ears, he sounded uncharacteristically dour. ‘If I had half a clue, I’d be able to make some sense of that… _weird_ vision…’

     He peered at the corner of the cell with hard eyes. Of all the twisted and inexplicable things he encountered in the deepest pit of the Arbiter’s Grounds, the waking dream in the forest ruin burned brightest in his memory. In particular, the black-clad warrior with the wicked leer still lingered in the shadows of his mind, mocking him with eyes he could have sworn he’d seen somewhere before…

     The sound of a deadbolt slamming open at the end of a corridor interrupted their conversation. Loam’s head jerked up, just as his blood turned to ice. _Please, not already…_

     He needn’t have feared. The two Gerudo who appeared on the other side of the bars had eyes only for Requiem, their smiles familiar in form and in meaning. For his part, Requiem merely frowned.

     ‘We’ll talk later,’ he said, standing to his feet as the jailer unlocked the door. ‘In the meantime, get some rest. You really have earned it, no matter what you say.’

     Loam watched him go, feeling a sense of relief that quickly twisted into guilt. He hugged his knees close and rested his cheek atop them, and in the silence attempted to put his thoughts in order before sleep took him. But the rasping cries of living corpses were still fresh in his ears, and so, too, was the mad laughter that issued forth from the smoke in the forest clearing. When he did finally doze off, fear was waiting to greet him in his dreams.

 

* * *

 

     Time passed.

     Loam wondered just how much. He tried to measure the days by how often his captors brought food, or came for Requiem. If his calculations were correct, more than two weeks had come and gone by the time Fierra reappeared. As the days were marked off, he began to gather back some of his senses and much of his strength, even on the paltry rations apportioned him by his captors. He apologised to Requiem, who was both gracious and deeply sympathetic, and together the two friends worked to keep the other’s spirits up in their forsaken corner of the world.

     When the cell door swung open and the yellow eyes were at last trained on him, Loam did not cower. He pulled his on his boots, stood to his feet and departed with a straight back, sparing the Sheikah a quick glance and a nod through the bars.

     He was led up a long flight of stairs, so long that he was unsurprised to arrive back at ground floor level, where he had entered the Arbiter’s Grounds in the first place. The band of jailers, two abreast behind and before him, made no comment. They proceeded to march him through a series of high-ceilinged chambers, until they appeared in the battle pit, (where the scattered metal limbs of the Iron Knuckle still lay), and then the antechamber, with the main entrance at its head. Loam could not hold back a moment longer.

     ‘Are we leaving?’ he asked them.

     Nobody spoke. They did not even glance at him. Over the sand and up the corridor, and the squad came to a halt at the stone slab that formed the door to the world outside. Their leader, a dead-eyed woman with an aquiline nose, pressed her palm to it and shot him a cold look.

     ‘Do as she says and you may yet live,’ she said, before adding: ‘Know that were it up to me, your head would be on a spike right now.’

     With a brisk jolt from her wrist, the door shuddered loose and rose like a granite curtain into the lintel. Loam squinted his eyes reflexively, but the gesture was uncalled for: it was almost as dark outside as it was in. Fierra was waiting there, standing with her back to him, surveying her domain by starlight.

     ‘Thank you, ladies, that will be all,’ she said without turning. ‘I can entertain our guest from here.’

     The four women bowed at the waist and retreated, disappearing down the passageway and leaving Loam on his own with their queen.

     ‘Come and stand beside me,’ she instructed.

     Reluctantly, Loam stepped over the threshold. He caught his breath; the air, while marvellously fresh, was the cold of arctic tundra. At once, he tucked his hands under his armpits and fought to keep his teeth from chattering. To his amazement, Fierra wore only a thin silk cape over her clothes, and seemed indifferent to the chill. He drew up alongside her and looked out over the fortress complex, a ramshackle in the bottleneck between high canyon walls.

     ‘What time is it?’ he wondered.

     ‘Early,’ said Fierra. ‘Pre-dawn. Look eastward, see for yourself.’

     He turned to study the horizon, and saw a pale, thin band where the sun would appear. The stars were vanishing in steady succession.

     ‘Your green land is over there,’ she reminded him. ‘I’ll bet you’d give anything to return to it, wouldn’t you?’

     His expression was stony, such that when he stamped his foot against the cold it came off as a gesture of petulance.

     Fierra went on. ‘I sometimes watch it from the towers. All afternoon, I study the passage of the sun over meadows, streams…little wooded thickets. I wonder, in those moments, if I’m somehow selling my people short by restricting us to the desert. It wouldn’t be a hard thing to arrange — just a casual waltz into the palace to slit the throats of the Prince and his doting mother — and then I would occupy the throne of the bearers of light, and all Hyrule would be as a playground for my sisters, forever.’

     She made him a sidelong smile.

     ‘But then I put away such fancies. I’m being absurd, I realise. It would not do for the Gerudo to live in a state of such gross abundance. You can’t deny it — blessing and bounty are precisely the reason the pale folk are so soft, so fat, so very, very _docile_.’ She poked a bare toe between the cracks in the stone, becoming thoughtful. ‘It is the desert that strips away the grime of living. With its heat…its lack…’

     A hissing, whistling sound began at the mouth of the valley. It crested almost at once into a howling gale that rushed over their vantage point, so cold that Loam doubled over, hugging himself tightly and baring his teeth to withstand it. Fierra, on the other hand, let her eyes fall closed and breathed deeply, a quivering sob of pure ecstasy. Through streaming eyes, Loam peered up at her in awe, watched as her long hair beat and whipped all about her in a frenzy, as though she was at the centre of this great power, commanding it, absorbing it. Not for the first time, he experienced a twinge of something like desperate hunger. When all had settled into stillness, she sighed through her nose and regarded him with heavy, blissful eyes.

     ‘…its bitter wind,’ she finished. ‘Hardship is the essence of character and dignity. You know this, of course. You — even you! — are not the man you were when first you came into our midst. You are something more. And whatever you say, you _like_ it, this change. You prefer it.’

     Loam scowled and looked away. ‘Think what you like,’ he said flatly.

     They stood side-by-side in silence for a few minutes longer. The eastern sky had turned a warm coral pink, scattered cloud parting into wisps to herald the coming of daybreak.

     ‘I never thanked you for ridding our basement of that phantom,’ said Fierra. ‘That was bad manners. I regret it.’

     He glanced at her. She had turned to face him fully.

     ‘Not just anyone could have done what you did. I am not too proud to admit this.’ Unselfconsciously, she placed finger and thumb between the valley of her breasts and produced a scrap of what looked like canvas. ‘Please, hold still,’ she instructed.

     Loam did not move a muscle as she bent forward to pin it to his tunic, right across the chest. Looking down when she had finished, he frowned to observe a series of meaningless symbols written on it in brown ink.

     ‘What is this?’

     ‘A token of my gratitude,’ she smiled. ‘You are now the lucky recipient of the Gerudo Membership Card, the traditional gift of my kind to outsiders. It says that, “ _for as long as the sun is in the sky, this man is to be treated as one of us_.” Can you imagine?’

     He gawked at her, not quite believing his ears.

     ‘So, what do I…what do I _do_ with it?’ he wondered.

     Fierra tittered. ‘Anything you like, of course! Share a meal with my girls, try your hand at horseback archery…you could even walk right out of here, all the way back to the castle gates, where your liege lord will no doubt be waiting with open arms. It’s entirely up to you.’

     It was then that she fixed him with her usual devilish grin.

     ‘But since you asked…perhaps there _is_ something you could do for me. Last year, on our long journey to Hyrule, we happened upon a caravan of mystics, and promptly set to work dispossessing them of their many jewels and relics.’ She turned her face to the west, as if to better recall the encounter. ‘Later, when I sat down with my keeper of coin to take stock, it occurred to me that a particular item — a talisman, a carved idol about the size of a Cuccoo’s egg — was missing from the haul. I knew right away that one of my girls had betrayed me, had kept for herself what she had no business keeping.’

     Loam twisted his mouth at her. ‘You mean she stole it? Is that so surprising, coming from a thief?’

     Fierra’s eyes flashed. ‘Nobody. Steals. From me.’ They held each other’s gaze for a moment, before she continued. ‘Many months later, I still do not know who is responsible. Since you’ve nothing better to do today, I thought perhaps you might like to use your newfound freedom to make some inquiries?’

     Mystified, Loam could only peer at her through narrowed eyes. He opened his mouth to protest, when a sudden lurch of realisation left him momentarily speechless.

     ‘This is the second trial,’ he said in a hollow voice. ‘Isn’t it?’

     Deep gold fringed the eastern sky now, with a swelling at the centre where the sun would rise in moments. Fierra stretched like a cat, her lithe arms above her head, regarding him through one half-opened eye. ‘Wisdom,’ she said with relish, ‘is not knowledge. Neither is it ability. Anyone can read a book, or hone a skill. No, true wisdom is by turns intuition, judgement, and a deep understanding of people — their ways, their weaknesses, their little tells. You will need all three if you are to solve this puzzle of mine in time.’

     ‘In time?’ Anxiously, he fingered the scrap of cloth fixed to his chest, and cold comprehension dawned on him a second time. ‘Wait…” _for as long as the sun is in the sky_ ”…what happens when the sun goes down?’

     The Gerudo queen simply looked at him, smiling placidly. His face fell.

     ‘Right,’ he croaked. ‘Right.’

     ‘Find the culprit, you clever fellow. Extract a confession from her very mouth, and I promise this will not be the last sunrise you see. I wish you all the very best. Your time starts…now.’

     And the dawn broke.

 

* * *

 

 

     Loam set off into the valley at a jog.

     Over the crest of the canyon wall, he could see the sun moving; a subtle crawl, but one that had already changed the whole of the sky from streaky yellow to periwinkle blue by the time the fortress complex opened up before him. In the dead of winter, he knew that its journey from east to west would barely last eight hours. The shadows would turn, the moon would rise, and that would be the end of him.

     For the second trial, Fierra was asking the impossible. These were Loam’s thoughts as he slowed to a trot at the head of the warriors’ quarters.

     Around him, Gerudo women were appearing from their tents, drowsy-eyed, tousle-haired and stretching. The ones who spared him a glance merely scowled and carried on preparing for the day ahead. Many gathered around the fire, where a kind of porridge burbled thickly inside a gigantic iron cauldron. They were unveiled, and in the case of some, unclothed; standing about aimlessly with their hands on their hips, blinking away sleep, in no way abashed by their nakedness. Loam, (who was greatly abashed), turned his eyes to the changing of the guard, the night watch climbing down from their towers to trade places with the day. Elsewhere, women young and old, and even girls of an age to the Princess, were patching clothes, feeding grain to Cuccoos, and sharpening blades with a whetstone. Despite their reputation as bandits and killers, the Gerudo’s morning routine had a whiff of the mundane about it — ordinary people living ordinary lives.

     As no-one had seen fit to charge at him with a spear, Loam assumed the Membership Card was working its magic. Fierra had meant what she’d said: he was free to come and go as he pleased. A wild urge to take off running and not look back until he was in his mother’s arms crested and died within him almost at once.

     ‘Who am I kidding?’ he muttered to himself. He wasn’t going anywhere; Zelda and Requiem acted as a shackle to the Arbiter’s Grounds, restraining him, forcing him to gamble his life in a game of deduction.

     The sun did not stop moving.

     A little uncertainly, he approached the breakfast crowd, where a woman with a long face was ladling slop into shallow clay bowls for her sisters. The mixture had a sweetish smell. Despite himself, Loam felt a stab of hunger, and shuffled around to be beside her.

     ‘Uh…good morning!’ he said through a strained smile. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got some of that stuff going spare?’

     The woman shot him a look of deepest loathing, such that Loam felt for sure he would walk away with an empty stomach. To his surprise, however, she dished him up a portion without comment and jerked her head in the direction of a basket of wooden spoons.

     ‘Thanks very much!’ he said sincerely. ‘It smells, uh…it smells real good. Is it your own recipe?’

     Judging by her reaction, it seemed friendly chit-chat was going to be harder than he’d hoped. Loam murmured his thanks a second time, and began to wander the yard, looking for a place to sit. Glaring faces on all sides steered his feet in a circle. _Keep your distance, filth,_ they warned. The Membership Card would protect him from murder, but would it cover savage beatings? He had no wish to find out.

     And Fierra wanted him to interrogate these people! They would not breathe a word to him, not until nightfall, and then it would all be the howling of beasts in a blood frenzy.

     He was about to give in and sit down on his own when a girl caught his eye from across the way. She was just a teenager, slightly gap-toothed and with oddly bushy hair, and she watched him with bare-faced fascination, not even attempting to disguise her interest when they locked eyes. Loam rearranged his features into what he hoped was a winning smile, and made his approach.

     ‘Mind if I sit here?’ he asked her.

     The girl shrugged a bare shoulder. ‘I guess. Are you the one who killed our Knuckle?’

     Loam sat down and gave a weak laugh. ‘Yeah. Sorry about that. It was him or me.’

     She continued to stare. ‘And the Poe in the basement? Did you really get rid of it?’

     ‘That did happen, yes.’ He tasted his first mouthful of the mixture, deciding at once that it was delicious, if a little grainy. ‘Not something I hope to have to do again anytime soon.’

     Again, she regarded him with a kind of wary awe, her mouth slightly agape. Loam wondered if she might be quirky. Certainly, she fit the description: her face, while sun-bronzed like her sisters, bore traces of youthful puppy fat, and large eyes above a small, snubbed nose gave her a sort of marsupial air. The overall impression was of someone awkward, eager, and most importantly, credulous.

     ‘Is that why the Mistress gave you membership?’ she wondered.

_No, she gave me membership so that I can sniff out whichever of you lunatic savages took her little amulet, or something._

     The thought was so clear that for one heartstopping moment he half-believed he’d said it out loud. It occurred to him then, as he held the spoon frozen between the bowl and his partly open mouth, that whatever strategy he intended to put to use to solve the mystery of the idol must not, in any way, involve him telling the truth.

     This knowledge made him feel strangely unwell — as far as he could recall, he had never deceived or manipulated anyone in his life. And yet, the girl watched him, ready to believe, ready to help him get a foot in the door on his mad and futile quest.

     ‘Uhm, not-not exactly, no. The Mistress, uh…’

_…true wisdom…is a deep understanding of people — their ways, their weaknesses, their little tells…_

     ‘…the Mistress, she—’

     Fierra’s words rang clear and cold in his ears. But they rang hollow. _Deep understanding …_ surely that was only partly true? Just knowing the weakness of others was not an asset on its own...

     ‘The Mistress sent me to find—’

     No, he decided. Only an underhanded spirit could turn another’s weakness into a weapon. He knew it in his heart before he willed it to his mind: wisdom, as _the Mistress_ defined it, was not insight for its own sake, but shrewdness and cunning in the service of the self.

     ‘—sssssomeone worthy,’ he finished, with a grimace.

     Two things happened at the same time, the very moment he finished speaking. For one, the girl’s face was transformed into an avid mask, gawping shamelessly, so taut with curiosity it was almost painful to behold. And for another, the briefest glimmer of bright pink flashed once from under Loam’s left sleeve and was gone. He darted his eyes to it a moment, then fixed his companion with a serious stare.

     ‘Worthy?’ she whispered. ‘Worthy, like — how?’

     Loam spooned in another mouthful and chewed for longer than he needed to, rapidly improvising behind his straight face. After swallowing, he sighed.

     ‘She didn’t go into detail,’ he admitted. ‘I am a man, after all.’

     He gestured ruefully at himself, as though his own sex was an embarrassment even to him.

     ‘But from what I could tell, it sounds like she’s searching for a, um — what’s the word? — a _confidant_. Someone she can trust with her deepest secrets. Maybe even someone who could take her place as leader if the worst should happen.’

     Again, his wrist glittered. He tugged at the sleeve, not daring to break eye contact a second time. The girl sat up on her knees now. She leaned in close, close enough for him to feel her breath on his face.

     ‘But — wait, so — how will you know what to look for?’ She spoke loudly, sounding agitated.

     He licked his lips and set the bowl to one side. Could it be possible for him to close the deal before he had even finished breakfast? The very notion set his heart to racing. _The idol,_ he thought, testing the words out in his imagination. _Whoever stole Fierra’s idol is worthy. Do you know who did it?_

     Just as he opened his mouth to speak, a shadow fell over them both. Loam turned to look, and felt suddenly like a small boy caught making mischief.

     ‘Why are you rubbing noses with this dog, little leever?’ said a deep voice from above.

     The girl by his side scurried to her feet, looking as put out as he felt by the intrusion. She averted her eyes and chewed her lip, wishing, it seemed, to put a lot of distance between herself and Loam, where moments ago she was under his spell.

     ‘N-Noom,’ she stammered. ‘I — we didn’t —’

     ‘ _Get_ ,’ commanded the voice. ‘And don’t let me catch you sniffing around pig muck like this _man_ again, hear?’

     Loam thought this was rather unfair, as the specimen who towered over them now was every inch the man he was, if not more so. Seven feet tall, broad and muscular, with a lantern jaw and closely-cropped hair, she reminded Loam of a pit fighter dressed up like an exotic concubine. He stood to his feet as the girl dashed away, and looked up into the flinty eyes of the newcomer.

     ‘The girls told me you were out here, mincing around like you own the place,’ the one called Noom growled. She seized a fistful of his tunic and pulled him near, peering hard at his Membership Card. ‘What’s the boss playing at, letting you out of your cell, eh? What’s she doing giving you one of these?’

     Loam shrugged, trying his hardest not to wince with barely an inch between himself and her snarling mouth. ‘She told me I was worthy,’ he lied. ‘Said I could come and go as I like.’

     ‘Don’t make me _laugh!_ ’ she barked, tightening her grip so that only his toes touched the ground. ‘You think you can grease me up, like that little imbecile? I can read the fine print.’ She traced a finger over the words. ‘“ _For as long as the sun is in the sky.”_ You don’t think I know what that means? It means she’s sent you here to accomplish something. And if you don’t, well… _you’ll_ be the meat, and _we’ll_ be the Wolfos. Isn’t that right?’

     She shoved him away, so that he staggered, stepping on his dish of porridge and splattering its contents up his leg.

     ‘Tick-tock, _man,_ ’ she grinned, baring her crooked teeth at him. ‘Tick-tock.’

 

* * *

 

     Loam wandered the compound all morning, searching for the young girl and cursing his bad luck. All the while, he turned Requiem’s mystical gemstone over between his fingers. It had changed colour, turning bright and vivid, when he had spoken falsely. _In the presence of deception,_ he remembered. Here, then, was another opportunity — if he had to, he would ask every woman he came across whether she was the thief who had robbed her master, and, if they answered, trust in the stone to make the truth plain.

     But the sun would not stop. The shadows grew short. High noon was approaching, and he was as close to solving the mystery as he was in the darkness of pre-dawn. In a quiet corner of the valley, he pressed his forehead to the cold stone and sighed, feeling the heat of the day on the back of his neck, glorying in the warmth, even as its passing counted down the final hours of his life.

_Thwock._

     He opened his eyes. The sound had come from behind a fractured wall. He approached the gap and craned his neck to peer through. On the other side a wide, sandy lot was open to the sky, targets arranged in a semicircle at the far end. A Gerudo dressed in dusty white stood with her back to him beside a barrel of arrows, which she loosed, one after the other, into each of the five bulls-eyes. Loam made an impressed noise in the back of his throat.

     ‘Wow,’ he said.

     The woman looked over her shoulder, but did not turn her body. In profile, she was beautiful, but delicate, with hollow cheeks and a sharp nose. Her ponytail was pulled very tight, giving her forehead a slightly domed look. She frowned as though irked by a fly, then returned to what she was doing.

     ‘You’re really good,’ he remarked, appearing from around the wall and drawing up alongside her. He rubbed his arm in a sheepish gesture. ‘I like to shoot, too, when I’m at home.’

     The woman glanced at him a second time, her expression getting uglier by the second. She nocked an arrow and pulled the bowstring taut, releasing it with a piercing whistle of air. It split the arrow already lodged in the target neatly in two. Despite the circumstances, Loam actually clapped his hands.

     ‘ _Whoa_. Seriously great.’ He turned to face her, smiling in what he hoped was a disarming way. ‘I’m Loam.’

     ‘I know who you are,’ she replied, still refusing to catch his eye. She had a flat, no-nonsense tone. ‘What do you want?’

     ‘Oh, I’m just…exploring. Getting to know the place.’ He pointed to his chest. ‘I’m a Gerudo now.’

     ‘Of course you are,’ said the other smoothly. She continued to feather her targets with perfect accuracy.

     Loam shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to stay casual, even as desperation nipped at his spirits.

     ‘Yeah, you know,’ he continued. ‘Ever since I put down that Knuckle, Fier—ah, _Lady_ Fierra has, uh, has made no bones about it. She wants me to learn the ropes. Said something about training me up to be the first male Gerudo in a generation.’ He fought hard not to wince at his own words, and tucked his hands into his armpits to conceal the stone.

     ‘There is no way that’s true.’

     ‘I know how it must sound. But that’s what’s happening. I was thinking, maybe you could teach me —?’

     She rounded on him in an instant, drawing the bowstring to her collarbone as she trained the arrowhead upon his face. Loam blanched and held his hands out in surrender, stammering loudly at her to stop, _stop_ , but his pleading was in vain — with a stiff _twang,_ the arrow was released. It sailed past his left ear, missing it by a quarter of an inch, and made its landing against the courtyard’s south gate. A frightened squawk accompanied the sound. Turning in astonishment, Loam saw the teenaged girl from breakfast crouched awkwardly between two wooden crates, her ponytail pinned to the wood.

     ‘You know better than to prowl, Janiir!’ shouted the archer, her eyes narrowed with dislike.

 _Janiir,_ thought Loam, whose heart was thudding painfully. _Janiir and Noom and…_

     ‘Sorry-sorry!’ squealed the other from afar. ‘Sorry, Merassa! I didn’t — I-I wasn’t —!’

     ‘Don’t linger where you’re not wanted.’ The archer, Merassa, spared Loam an even blacker look, then finished lecturing the girl in her native tongue.

     For her part, the terrified Janiir made her escape as quickly as possible, pulling her hair free and scampering around a corner. Loam almost started after her, desperate to pick up on the hottest lead he had going, but refrained. Instead, he spun to face Merassa, altering his expression into one of rue and fondness.

     ‘Kids, huh?’ he chuckled. ‘It’s the same where I come from. There’s this one guy, Bartl—’

     ‘ _Why are you still here?_ ’ she demanded, her yellow eyes narrowed to slits.

     He staggered back a step, ready to turn tail and run. But the shadows had turned to face the east now, and caution was getting him nowhere. He returned her hostility with an accusing look of his own, and spoke with only the vaguest idea of what he hoped to achieve.

     ‘Because I know you have the talisman.’

     There was a shivering moment of silence in which they regarded one another. Merassa was blank-faced. From someplace far and away, a vulture screamed.

     ‘What?’

     ‘The talisman,‘ he pressed, ‘the idol. Fierra had it, one of her own took it, and all signs point to you.’

     ‘What idol?’ she demanded. ‘What signs? _What the hell are you talking about?_ ’

     She took an arrow from the basket and slapped it irritably against her thigh. Loam could see that she was fighting to abide by the conditions of his Membership Card, but pressed on, improvising madly, channelling his fear into a reckless imitation of confidence.

     ‘Don’t pretend. She sent me here to find it,’ he explained. He took half a step forward, looming over her by a full head and shoulders. Merassa did not back away, merely regarded him with wide-eyed loathing and bewilderment. ‘She trusts me enough to get to the bottom of it. I asked around all morning and your name came up. Merassa, right? Noom said I’d find you at the archer’s yard.’

     For the first time, the girl looked genuinely shocked. Her copper face noticeably paled.

     ‘Noom?’ she whispered.

     ‘Well, sure,’ said Loam. ‘You know her? Tall as a tree, face like a bullbo?’ He dry swallowed, feeling irrationally afraid that the woman in question might be listening over his shoulder. ‘Fierra suspected Noom in the first place, but after I questioned her, she told me you were the culprit — that _you_ took from your own Mistress’ treasure pile.’

     Merassa opened and closed her mouth soundlessly, looking smaller than ever before. Loam drew a breath, hardly daring to hope.

     ‘Well? Is it true?’

     ‘I-I never had it!’ blurted the woman. ‘I have never — I _would_ never — take from the Mistress.’

     He glanced at the jewel on his wrist. It hung there, dull and inactive. She was telling the truth. At first he knit his brows together in frustration, preparing to move on, but a second wave of recklessness came over him, a torrent of desperation that caused him to raise his voice and gesture with both hands.

     ‘You have been accused by _Noom_!’ he practically shouted. ‘Now, I haven’t been a Gerudo for very long, but even _I_ can see that she’s someone whose word carries a lot of weight around here. I’m sorry, but if you can’t prove your innocence before sundown, I’ll be forced to—’

     ‘This is ridiculous!’ cried Merassa, her colour returning. She threw her bow and arrow to the ground and made to step around him. ‘Let me talk to Noom—’

     ‘No!’ Loam stopped her with open palms, giddy with stress. ‘I-I mean…you think she’ll listen to you? She’s the one who — who sealed your doom, right? The only way you’re getting out of this is to help me locate the real thief. Look to your friends, put out the word, whatever it takes!’

     She stared at him, looking back and forth between his right eye and his left. Loam stood up straight and ran his fingers through his hair.

     ‘Listen, I’m sorry this is happening to you,’ he admitted in an undertone. ‘But your only hope now is to work with me to find this talisman, understand? It’s small, about the size of a Cuccoo’s egg. One of your sisters took it from a pile of loot you burgled from some mystics one time.’

     Though she was seething, a flicker of recognition registered on Merassa’s face. She took a step back, and fixed him with a final dark look.

     ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask around. Meet me in the western stable in an hours’ time.’

     ‘Don’t let any word of this get back to Noom!’ Loam called after her as she turned on the ball of one bare foot and dashed around a corner. ‘OK? I-I’ll see you soon. Western stable!’

     Alone again, he waited for a full minute before exhaling loudly, clutching his chest and reeling from the pressure.

     ‘Can’t believe I just did that,’ he panted. He stood up straight and looked to the skies. ‘An hour…’

     With Merassa on the case, Loam had gained an unlikely ally. But the mystery was by no means unravelled, and his own shadow had just become longer than he was tall. There could not have been another two hours of daylight to go around. He turned on the spot for a moment in time, and decided his best bet was to find the girl, Janiir, and attempt to recruit her as he had the other.

     No sooner had he set off in the opposite direction than he came face-to-face with Noom for the second time, sitting upon a bulwark above him, accompanied by a reedy-looking older woman with a sideways smile.

     ‘How goes it, dog?’ she called down to him. ‘Having fun? Only the hour grows late, and—’ (she produced a steel pike from behind one of the ramparts, its point glinting in the sun) ‘—I’m just _ailing_ for an impaling.’

     The two women shared a low, dirty chuckle. Loam glared up at them, but kept walking.

 

* * *

 

     He re-entered the camp at full stride and spotted Janiir almost at once, looking sheepish as she was being lectured by two green-robed assassins among the tents. When they had walked away, leaving her with head hung low, Loam appeared by her side. 

     ‘Hello, again!’ he said brightly. To his own ears he sounded false and strained, but the girl didn’t notice; she flinched at his sudden appearance, stifling a squeak. ‘Hey, sorry, there. Didn’t mean to startle you.’

     She looked anxious. ‘Noom said I wasn’t supposed to talk to you—’

     ‘I remember.’ He tilted his head. ‘Does she boss you around a lot?’

     ‘Everyone does,’ said Janiir sulkily. ‘But Noom especially. She’s the captain of the guard, so everyone has to do what she says. Even Fadoori.’

     ‘Oh? Who’s Fadoori?’

     She twirled a lock of tufty hair around her finger, looking more discomfited than ever. ‘Fadoori is the, um, the quartermaster. In charge of the armoury.’ The girl chewed her lip and looked away, adding, almost as an afterthought: ‘She’s beautiful.’

     Loam arched an eyebrow. It was an odd piece of additional information to have shared.

     ‘Uh. OK,’ he said at length. ‘Look, I know what Noom said, but hear me out — like I was saying before, the Mistress sent me here to find someone worthy, and — Janiir, is it? — Janiir, I want that someone to be you.’

     She goggled at him. ‘Really? Wh-what do I have to do? Just tell me.’

     He felt a twinge of pity for the girl, mixed with guilt at having to deceive her. But the light was taking on an orange quality now, and neither of these feelings were quite as insistent as his fear.

     ‘It’s simple. Somebody stole something belonging to the Mistress — a talisman, a, um, like an amulet, I guess? Little carved totem? She said the one who dared to take it shows the kind of…uh, daring…she’s looking for in her…in her lieutenants,’ he finished lamely. He was running out of words to prop up his fictions.

     At this, the girl Janiir regarded him with a most peculiar expression. The eager light in her eyes vanished, and her full lips parted slightly, revealing her crooked teeth. It was a look that hovered between blank bewilderment and shock.

     ‘You mean…she isn’t angry?’ she whispered.

     Loam was taken aback by the change in her demeanour. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘No, she’s not angry. Just the opposite — she’s impressed.’ He studied her carefully for a moment longer, then chanced to ask: ‘You don’t…you don’t _have_ it, do you? You’re not—’

     ‘I don’t have it,’ she said vehemently. A quick glance at Requiem’s truth stone revealed that it was so. ‘I-I don’t have it, but —’ (she licked her lips, looking flushed) ‘—but I think I can get it?’

     Loam’s jaw dropped. ‘You can? Who from?’

     But Janiir just shook her head, already backing away from him. She looked like a girl at war with herself, so consumed by her own thoughts that she seemed to stare right through him.

     ‘Janiir?’ he pressed, not quite succeeding in keeping the plea from his voice. ‘Please, just tell me.’

     ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Meet me here at sundown.’

     ‘I won’t _be_ here at sundown,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I’ll be at the western stable…’

_…lying face-down in a pool of my own blood._

     ‘Then meet me there!’ she called over her shoulder, and disappeared among the tents.

     Loam’s breathing had become shallow; he was fatigued by anxiety. The sky had turned the deepest blue and was fringed in the east with mauve, the western sky a dazzling fireball that turned faces into livid black-and-gold masks. They were watching him now, the faces: all around him, the Gerudo had stopped to stare and smile. Some of them brandished scimitars, others crude dirks; still others carried sticks and clubs. They had scented his blood in the dusk, the last of his Membership Card’s protection trickling away like sand in an hourglass. Loam returned their gaze with naked hatred in his eyes. If he was going to die — and he was quite sure of that now — he wanted as many of them as possible to taste his contempt for their whole race before the end.

     A loose cluster of women in purple garb were gathered across the way, talking in low voices, and he approached them without hesitation.

     ‘Which way to the western stable?’

 

* * *

 

     A crowd was waiting for him there.

     In a clearing before the crude wooden lattice of the animal pen, they stood in a circle, watching a fierce argument unfold between two of their own. The archer, Merassa, was shouting in her native tongue and gesturing animatedly, while another woman — young and attractive, with a voluptuous figure and haughty eyes — folded her arms and looked on, clearly disgusted.

     ‘Merassa?’ said Loam, announcing himself to the gathering. ‘What’s going on?’

     ‘Ah!’ she said, seeing him there. ‘Here he is. Boy, here is your culprit — our very own quartermaster, Fadoori!’

     The beautiful woman with the familiar name rolled her eyes.

     ‘You’re a fool, Merassa, and always have been,’ she retorted, examining her nails for effect. ‘This is some kind of pathetic new low—’

     ‘Is it true?’ Loam demanded, closing in on her. ‘Did you steal the talisman?’

     ‘Steal from the Mistress?’ Fadoori scoffed. ‘Are you each as stupid as the other? How could I hope to get away with it?’

     Merassa was adamant. ‘You _lie!_ ’ she shrieked. ‘Everyone I asked said they’d seen you with it, wearing it like a locket! _You_ are guilty! _You_ must be punished!’

     ‘No,’ said Loam. He was staring at Requiem’s stone, holding it at eye level, his face slack with hopelessness. ‘She’s telling the truth. She didn’t steal it.’

     Fadoori looked satisfied, while Merassa appeared stricken.

     ‘But you had it,’ she said. ‘Everybody said so!’

     ‘Oh, I had it, true enough,’ said Fadoori, waving a careless hand. ‘But I didn’t steal it. It was placed on my pillow, many months ago — a mysterious gift from one of my many admirers, or so I thought.’ She looked disdainfully at her accuser. ‘Only now do I realise that it wasn’t a gift at all, but planted evidence used to frame me for a crime I would never commit! Well, what of it, Merassa? Haven’t you always been jealous of my success? Wouldn’t you just _love_ to have me thrown in a dungeon, so that you could take my place as quartermaster?’

     A wave of excited murmuring passed through the crowd. Loam looked urgently between the two women, to the unresponsive jewel bound to his wrist, to the last of the sun’s rays as they stretched and faded and winked out, one after the other.

     ‘Oh, gods,’ he breathed. A sob caught in his throat. He alone in the crowd knew that neither Merassa nor Fadoori were responsible for stealing the talisman. It really had been a gift. A gift from a mysterious admirer…

     ‘Oh, gods,’ he said a second time — not out of despair, but realisation.

     ‘How _dare_ you!’ thundered Merassa, looking as though she were about to hit Fadoori. ‘The only reason I’m speaking to you at all is because Noom has accused me of—’

     ‘What did I accuse you of?’ said a deep and deadly voice.

     The crowd parted as the gigantic Noom appeared, flanked on both sides by warriors in green and red. All of them carried weapons, and their eyes were trained hungrily upon Loam, who withered like a flower. The blue shadows of nightfall closed in from every corner of the clearing.

     Merassa turned on her captain. She was incandescent with rage.

     ‘You!’ she hissed. ‘ _You_ have spoken falsely! Accusing me of stealing treasure from the Mistress, when I alone am faithful—’

     ‘I haven’t accused you of anything,’ grunted Noom, her mannish face twisting into a look of hostility. ‘What are you blathering about, girl?’

     ‘Oh, spare me! The _man_ told me everything, Noom! You’ve been making up stories to rat me out to the Mistress! I didn’t take her stupid talisman, but it’s my word against yours, so that’s me out of the picture, isn’t it? And isn’t that _just what everyone wants_!’

     For a moment, Noom’s face and voice were like ice. ‘The man told you _what_?’ she murmured. Then a light came on in her eyes, and a slow, sly smile spread from ear-to-ear as she turned to regard Loam along with everyone else. ‘Ahh. So that’s it, eh, boy? That’s why the Mistress sent you here. And haven’t you just done a fine job, coming _this_ close — playing us, one against the other? Oh, but she was right to see your potential…’

     A single ray of sunlight peeked over the horizon. The first stars speckled the night sky…the constellations he had known from boyhood…

     ‘Sadly,’ said Noom, advancing upon him with a spear in either hand, ‘“close enough” doesn’t cut it with my kind.’

     Loam observed, as if in a dream, the whole of the assembly fall into step behind her. Their faces, like hers, reflected first understanding, then deepest malice. Bizarrely, something like a short laugh escaped his lips.

     ‘Yep, you got me,’ he said sheepishly, holding up his hands as if in surrender. ‘Now, if you’ll just give me a minute…’

     Then he turned tail and ran with everything he had.

     ‘ _JANIIR!’_ he screamed, as he hurtled down a corridor. ‘ _WHERE ARE YOU?’_

     Behind him, the horde came stampeding. Their voices were a cacophony of tribal screams, and overhead javelins whizzed past, one of them missing him by just inches. He rounded a corner and gasped to see the girl approaching at speed, her hand held high and clutching something small at the end of a chain. She looked breathless with triumph.

     ‘Here it is!’ she called. ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it!’

     Her smile faltered as the throng of angry warriors appeared over his shoulder. She jogged to a halt halfway along the passage and appeared paralysed, rooted to the spot.

     ‘ _Janiir, they want it!_ ’ he roared over the din, racing toward her. With what he was sure would be his dying breath, he told his final lie: ‘ _They want it for themselves! Just tell me — did you steal it from the pile of treasure? Did you steal it to give to Fadoori?’_

     ‘Yes,’ said the girl, blinking. ‘I took it. I-I put it in her tent, but I was too afraid to say anything.’ She examined the thing in her hand, looking lost, even afraid. ‘I’m in love with her. I’ve always been in love with her.’

     Loam slowed and staggered to a complete stop, a mere three feet in front of the girl. He clutched his knees and panted for breath as his pursuers closed in for the kill. The sun’s last ray, already thin as string, winked out and was gone, and under a clear night sky he stood to his full height and surveyed the heavens in their splendour, listened to the oddly slow and measured percussion of his heartbeat, and hoped with all his might that Raya would go on to live a full and happy life without him.

     ‘Thank you,’ he said to Janiir with a sad and tired smile. ‘That’s all I really wanted to know.’

     Then he braced himself for the death stroke, waiting for the sound of steel through flesh, the spurting of warm blood over sand.

     He did not have to wait very long.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. The Final Trial

     It made no sense.

     He heard the sound — _that hideous sound_ — of an impaling blade, the rending of meat, the running through of something solid and wet. He even flinched, his body wracked by a spasm, his eyes clenched shut and his teeth bared in readiness. But there was no pain. There was not even a sense of contact.

     He was untouched. And nearly every sound had been silenced.

     There was no more baying for his blood, no clatter of glaive and scimitar. The thunderous footfalls had ceased as well. Only the wind remained, far and away across the desert waste, crooning its ghostly evening song. Loam wanted to ask out loud if he was dead. Instead, he opened one eye. The other quickly followed.

     Before him stood Janiir, still holding the talisman at shoulder level, her palm upturned so that the chain hung in coils between her fingers. It looked, in the starlight, like a miniature head in polished jade, complete with empty eyes and leering mouth. Janiir did not look at it, and neither did she look at him.

     She looked down, vaguely surprised, at the steel blade as long as Loam’s arm protruding from her chest and drenched in her blood.

     Loam took a step back, his mouth working soundlessly. The world was frozen, and yet he felt it reeling beneath his feet, turning forever on its axis, day and night and night and day, propelling him into old age and all its terror and regret.

     ‘Janiir,’ he croaked.

     The girl — and she was just a girl — lifted her head very slowly to look him in the eye. Her lips were parted, and blood had started to well in the corner, spilling over in a thin stream to her chin. She seemed to want to say something. Unconsciously, he reached out a hand to touch her.

     But another hand appeared.

     A dark hand at the end of a dark arm, appearing at Janiir’s shoulder. It slithered to the talisman and plucked it neatly from her grasp, at which moment the sword was withdrawn in a flash of silver. The girl bucked, teetered, and crumpled to the sand, her eyes unblinking, and finally unseeing. In her place stood Fierra, looking quite as hard and cold as a bronze monument, her prize in one hand, her murder weapon in the other. She examined the talisman for several long minutes, turning it over and caressing the smoothness of it with her thumb. At last, she pocketed it, and her eyes roved up from the buckles of Loam’s boots to his pale, slack face.

     ‘That,’ she said in a voice so low it was almost a purr, ‘was a very close call. But you may consider the second trial a success.’

     Loam released a breath he had not realised he’d been holding. He drew another, which he likewise held, and repeated this over the course of a minute.

     ‘You killed her,’ he managed at last. ‘You _killed_ her.’

     Fierra tilted her head to one side, unmoved. ‘To the contrary,’ she replied. ‘ _You_ killed her. You sought her out, you played her like an ocarina, and then you exposed her as a traitor. If you had not come here at all, she would still be alive. If you had not cared to save your own skin, hers would still be whole, is that not so? One way or another, payment had to be made. It isn’t my fault that you and your conscience left it too late to decide if the price was too high.’

     Loam’s shoulders slumped. He looked between the prone body on the ground and his own hands, which were trembling uncontrollably. Fierra stood to one side, and gestured with her free hand at the Arbiter’s Grounds, enormous and aglow above the torchlight of the night’s watch.

     ‘Come,’ she said. ‘You need rest. And really, you mustn’t look so wretched — you and the Princess are one step closer to your happily ever after! You must think only of yourself…not that you need the practice.’

     Her words pierced his heart with the force of the sword that had pierced Janiir’s. He started forward, a shuffling, stumbling gait, around the body of the girl, drawing level with the Gerudo queen and staring at her with haunted eyes. Together, they turned to face the assembly of warriors, who stood stock still and speechless, wide eyes in thunderstruck faces, their weapons limp at their sides. Even Noom was helpless to say a word.

     ‘Clean this up,’ ordered Fierra, with a nod to the pooling blood at her feet. ‘And tell your daughters and their daughters: Mommy is not to be trifled with.’

 

* * *

 

     In the bowels of the Arbiter’s Grounds, behind a rusty iron grate, Requiem sat with his back to the far wall. Time had passed since they had taken his friend — too much time. Soon, they would come for him, too. They would goad him, on his thousandth journey to the Unspeakable Room, about how his friend suffered greatly in the end — how he died screaming, begging. This would be a lie. They breathed lies, the Gerudo, ( _and ate and drank and slept and walked and lived and loved them_ ). But if Loam did not come back, this much would be true: his friend truly would be dead, and all would be lost.

     So when the deadbolt shunted open and the guards arrived, accompanied not by his friend but by a mere shell bearing his likeness and wearing his clothes, Requiem hardly had time to rejoice before he despaired.

     The warden gave Loam a rough shove between the shoulders, and he collapsed without resistance into the cell, like clods of earth in a sack. The Sheikah looked into the faces of the women as they closed and locked the door. No-one was smiling. There were no taunts. The warden spared them both one final, dark look, before retrieving the torch from its bracket in the wall and departing with it, the orange light fading into utter blackness.

     Long minutes passed. The absence of light was of no consequence to Requiem. He stared at Loam’s shoulders, watched them rise and fall, as though he was sleeping. But his keen ears caught the raggedness behind every breath — Loam was crying.

     ‘Loam?’ he ventured. ‘Loam, I’m here. It’s Requiem.’

     There was no response. Very gently, he placed an open palm against the nape of his friend’s neck and whispered something in a language that was old when the world was young.

     ‘Loam, talk to me. What did they do to you?’

     Slowly, laboriously, Loam pressed his fists into the stone floor and pushed himself onto all fours, his face heavy against the wall. His wet eyes were hooded, and his mouth was parted also, the lips pursed as though he was stirring from slumber. A groan escaped them.

     ‘Nothing,’ he whispered at length. ‘Nobody did anything.’

     ‘What happened?’

     ‘It was me,’ said Loam. He sniffed hugely, then pressed the heels of his palms into either eye, his glasses lifting and falling to the floor with a clatter. ‘I — I wanted to be wise. I had to be wise to live. You see? It was her, or…or it was me. The price was…the price, it…’

     Requiem felt a swell of deep emotion in his heart, such that his own eyes stung to see his friend begin to dissolve there in the darkness.

     ‘You have to understand,’ choked Loam, pleadingly. ‘There’s wisdom, in-in weakness, there’s…I…wisdom is…’ Sobs racked his whole body. ‘Please understand...’

     And then he broke utterly, and did not speak another word for days.

 

* * *

 

     ‘Do you know what power is, Requiem?’

     The Sheikah had been dozing. He lifted his head and regarded his friend from across the cell.

     ‘I think so,’ he replied after a moment’s pause. ‘To me, power is freedom. If I could come and go as I pleased, I’d be the master of my own destiny. I would be _empowered._ ’ He gestured all around him. ‘So! By the same token, I have never been more powerless than I am right now.’

     Loam made him a sad smile in return.

     ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘I guess I think that, too. Used to be, I thought power was strength, like physical strength? Or authority, I suppose.’ He looked away. ‘I wonder how _she_ defines it…’

     Requiem rolled his shoulders experimentally and thought for a moment.

     ‘Control,’ he decided. ‘Total control. Dominance, even. To be _first_ in everything — that’s the Gerudo way.’ He stood up and crossed over to the bars to lean against them, stretching his limbs and wincing. ‘However she defines it, I can tell you this: she values it above all other qualities. To be honest, I have no idea how she intends to test yours — only that she’ll do everything in her own power to thwart you.’

     ‘Yeah.’

     They reflected on the time to come in silence.

     ‘The final trial,’ said Requiem, as much to himself as to Loam.

     ‘The final trial.’ Loam caught his eye. ‘Even if I survive…do you really think she’s good for her word?’

     ‘She is treacherous,’ said Requiem, almost too quickly. His fists clenched and unclenched. ‘And she owes us nothing. She could walk back on her promise and never be held to account for it. But you already knew that.’

     Loam stared into space. ‘I did know that,’ he said blankly. ‘I’ve just been trying not to think about it.’

     The Sheikah crouched in front of his friend and gave him an encouraging clap on the arm. ‘Listen to me, Loam. You were better than her long before you set foot inside this place, and you are better again for having defied her when she meant for you to die. Whatever awaits you now — whether we feel the sun on our faces or perish in the dark — she will know, now and forever, that you are greater in every way that counts. As a warrior, as a leader, as a symbol, _you are greater_.’

     At first, Loam did not find comfort in these words. But as he held Requiem’s gaze, the luminous, crimson-eyed gaze of his faithful friend, he felt suddenly and unaccountably light. He even smiled.

     ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Requiem. No matter what happens, I’ll always be glad I met you.’

     ‘And I, you.’

     From wooden cups, they drank stale water and toasted the end, whichever form it took.

 

* * *

 

     When the Gerudo came for him, Loam felt nothing and said nothing. He reached for his boots and his belt, but was stopped with a smarting slap on the arm from the wooden staff in the warden’s hands.

     ‘Just as you are,’ she said dourly.

     The prisoners exchanged a perplexed glance. Loam shrugged and stood, barefoot and with his tunic hanging from his body like a nightshirt. He looked down at Requiem for the last time and inclined his head. Neither man’s face betrayed emotion, but their eyes were alive, searching, fortifying the other. The guards were agitated; one scanned the walls and ceiling with an uneasy expression, perhaps appreciating for the first time the squalid conditions under which her captives were kept. They left quickly, and in familiar formation: Loam at the centre, the warden ahead. The torch on the wall was left in its bracket. Glancing over his shoulder Loam saw Requiem’s fingers wrap around the bars, and the glint of a single red eye in the shadows.

     And then he was gone.

     The company moved relentlessly upward, the warden setting such a pace that Loam and the rear guard were nearly jogging in her wake. Chambers and corridors flashed by in one continuous black-and-orange movement, the fiery torches casting shadows like pacing wildcats over the walls. Occasionally, Loam would spot a shaft of moonlight from somewhere in the gloom. He wondered if he was being led out into the fortress complex for the second time. But then the stair continued upward, a patchwork succession of hard stone steps around the central well of the main tower, higher and higher until they drew level with a broad corridor. At the end, a stone slab so dense with runic inscriptions it looked like a page from a giant spell book stood between statues in the likeness of desert cobras. The warden slowed to an even stride, for which Loam was grateful — he could no longer tell if his heart was beating from dread or from exertion. In silence they passed through to the end of corridor, where they drew, at last, to a halt.

     The warden placed an open palm to the slab. She appeared to hesitate, trailing her fingertips over what was etched there. After a moment, she turned her head slightly and addressed him without meeting his eye.

     ‘You have been given ample opportunity to die before now,’ she said. Then she turned to face him fully. ‘You’re about to learn what a mistake it was to have waited this long.’

     With a jolt of force, the door shuddered and rose, the grumble of shifting stone thrumming up and down the corridor and into Loam’s bones. The warden withdrew and joined her lieutenants, leaving him to stare into the darkness beyond.

     ‘In,’ she commanded, and prodded him in the small of his back with her staff for good measure.

     Loam winced and shot her a scowl over his shoulder, before shuffling forward without comment. The moment he crossed the threshold, he was engulfed by a fragrance so dense it was almost a physical shroud. The aroma was not unpleasant — he could detect cloves, aloe, rosewater, myrrh, incense and green chu, among others — but hot and strong, enough to bring tears to his eyes. He gave a cautious, wheezy cough into his sleeve and pressed onward, blind in the murk of the mystery chamber, the door falling shut behind him with a reverberating boom. Slowly, his eyes began to adjust, and the first thrill of genuine alarm crept up his spine.

     The room was high and round, with a continuous wall adorned every few yards by ornamental bronze censers. Pink mist rose from them in slow, undulating columns, the perfume gathering into a cloud just below the eaves, like an alchemist’s workshop. The stone floor was cool under his bare feet. He caught movement up ahead, but no sound; shadowy figures the size of dogs passing back and forth across the room at speed. He was beginning to wonder if he had entered a den of monsters, when a hiss that become a crackle echoed around the chamber. A ring of red-tipped flames flickered to life at the base of the wall, encircling him and illumining his surroundings in a deep and dancing light.

     Loam stifled a gasp.

     High in the walls, in narrow alcoves, robed and hooded figures stood impassive as statues. The light from below cast their hooked noses and serious mouths into sharp relief, but their eyes were concealed, their hands joined somewhere in the folds of their long black sleeves. He turned on the spot and counted a dozen of them — Gerudo monks, blind spectators to his fate — and felt suddenly and inescapably like the sacrifice in some dark and grisly ritual.

     ‘What’s going on?’ he wondered aloud.

     It occurred to him that he had started to breathe through his mouth. He continued to swivel around, even as he advanced into the centre of the room, not wishing to have his back to any of them for very long. Beads of sweat dewed his face and neck, and the riot of aromas weighed upon him like a sedative. For the second time, he cast his thoughts to the nature of the trial — was his challenge to withstand these oppressive conditions?

     Then the flames at the head of the room opened like a curtain of beads. Fierra entered, and he thought no more.

     It was the thief queen as he had never seen her. With her sunset-coloured hair bound up in elaborate, glossy coils, her characteristic white painted lips turned ruby red, and the corners of her eyes studded with jewels like winter stars, she presented herself to him. She was arrayed not in vest and trousers, but in ivory silk; a light, flowing gown, cinched at the middle by an embroidered sash. Her plunging neckline displayed the talisman in repose against her bare collarbone. Dressed as a priestess, dressed as a bride, Fierra was every inch the adversary he had come to hate and fear — but tenfold the object of desire. He made a sound that might have been a whimper, if it wasn’t a moan.

     For her part, the woman said not one word. She came to a standstill at ten paces and regarded him, her face a dispassionate mask. This, too, was unusual. There was no trace of shrewdness or indulgence in her eyes, no subtle curl in the corner of her mouth. She seemed almost grave, as though, for the first time, she took no pleasure in what was about to unfold.

     ‘We begin, then,’ she said.

     With a snap of her fingers, the scurrying shadows reappeared. They hurtled into the ring of flames and swarmed to their Mistress; Gerudo girls, scarcely ten years old and dressed head-to-toe in black. One brought her a bottle, another brought her a weapon, while a third bent to adjust the set of her gown. It was the weapon that managed to tear Loam’s eyes away from her body: a glaive, its metallic purple haft as long as she was tall. On either end was a silver blade, each sprouting from a bushel of exotic feathers. She held it in her right hand, downwardly turned and flat against her forearm. The bottle she examined at arm’s length, as though reading from a label that wasn’t there.

     Before Loam could find his voice, a fourth girl appeared, leaping nimbly into the light and racing to his side. He flinched and gave a strangled yelp, spying the sword in her hands and fearing an attack. Instead of taking a swing, however, she dropped to one knee and proffered it, pommel-first, for him to take.

     It was the Ordon Sword.

     Loam looked upon it in disbelief. The flat of the blade had been polished as clear as a mirror, its edges sharp enough to split a hair lengthwise. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the hilt. The girl melted away and disappeared from sight, leaving him to stare into his own face, sad-eyed and smudged with dirt, his copper hair dishevelled and standing up in odd places. He laughed then, quietly and without humour, lowering the blade to his side.

     ‘So, this is it?’ he said. ‘This is what you came up with to test my power? A fight? You want me to fight you and…what? Kill you? Who’d honour our bargain then?’ He sighed and looked down. ‘I don’t want to kill anyone. Not even you, not really. To tell you the truth...I’m kind of disappointed.’

     At first it seemed as though Fierra hadn’t heard him. Her eyes had not left the bottle; she was fixated on its contents, which seemed to be stirring slightly. ‘And I do so crave your good opinion,’ she murmured at last. Then she lifted her eyes to him and spoke plainly: ‘Make me bleed, if you can. If you can’t, I will teach you. But it will not be a lesson you can apply later on.’

     Her instructions complete, she unstoppered the bottle and took a long gulp. Only as it disappeared down her throat did Loam grasp what was inside.

     The Poe’s soul. She drained it to the dregs, and his world turned upside down.

     She let out a rattling gasp, as though what she had just drunk was searing her insides. The talisman at her neck glowed dazzling green, seemingly activated by what she had done, and her eyes, when they opened, were not eyes at all but phosphorescent pillars of white fire, trailing fine wisps with every motion of her head. Lastly, the feathers at opposite ends of her double-edged glaive burst into flame and raged on before and behind her, turning the blades bright orange as though fresh from the blacksmith’s anvil. She was no longer priestess, no longer bride — she was no longer thief or queen or even human — she was mythical, divine; the Goddess of the Sand. It was all Loam could do to look upon her without falling to his knees.

 _‘Fight me,’_ she said in a voice that was not her own, and with that she came toward him with her infernal weapon outstretched.

     Loam had time only to gather a lungful of incense before she swung. The blade trailed fire like a comet’s tail as it sailed past, but Loam beat a hasty retreat, dancing backward on his toes and opening a space between them. Overhead, the hooded figures had begun to speak in unison, a murmured monotone, a chant. He turned the sword in his hand, quickly reacquainting himself with its weight, its balance, then raised its point to her face and fell into a fighter’s stance.

     Fierra pounced.

     Steel met steel, producing such a fountain of dazzling sparks as to almost hide the opponents from one another. With blades locked, the Gerudo traced a wide circle in the air with her glaive, taking Loam with her until the edges came unstuck with a shrill ring and both fighters turned on a pirouette, channeling the momentum into another blistering strike, and then another, and another. High and low they clashed, so perfect a reflection of the other’s strength and skill that they could have been at war with their own shadows. But Fierra had the advantage; even when her body was angled away from him, the blade at the rear end of the haft protected her, effortlessly deflecting a jab from the Ordon Sword as though she had eyes in the back of her head. So poetic were her movements, so fluid and sweeping, that Loam felt like he was intruding upon a holy sacrament, a dance of spiritual significance. The glaive she worked sometimes like an oar, forcing him to beat back either end as she advanced upon him relentlessly, and sometimes like a great baton, twirling with such speed as to create a separate ring of fire for just herself.

     The chanting became louder, more urgent. Sweat poured from Loam’s body. He was panting.

     Fierra leapt and swung, missing him by inches as he bent backwards at the waist. She landed in a ready-made crouch and swung low from the other direction, meaning to cut his feet out from under him, but Loam jumped as she did, curling his legs nimbly and feeling the flames pass safely underneath. This was a mistake; he realised, too late, that he ought to have reversed to avoid it. When he landed, she was there to plant her right foot between his eyes, breaking his glasses in two and sending him hurtling backwards. He landed roughly on both elbows, and blinked to disperse the stars that twinkled across his now diminished vision. Massaging his nose, he rose unsteadily and glared at her, the outline of her body blurred at the edges.

     Loam did not have to wonder if this would hurt his chances. Neither did he care. She could put out his eyes altogether, and he would still make her bleed — nothing was going to stand in his way.

     He charged.

     In the rush he saw her painted lips twitch, and though her eyes were radiant flares he could detect a familiar air of the smugly satisfied to her countenance. She shifted her weight to her back foot to receive him, bringing wide the glaive and its flaming tip to meet him stroke for stroke. A tidy half-dozen ripostes, and she had him a second time: a gap in his defence gave her purchase to shove him with the broad side of the haft, before executing an upward slash that tore a smoking hole in his tunic. The breath was squeezed from Loam’s lungs. He staggered backward and dropped the Ordon sword with a clang, sputtering as the worst pain he had ever known insisted itself upon his every nerve and synapse. The tear was a foot long and smouldered at the edges, enough for him to fear that the whole garment would alight with him still in it. Without hesitation he seized either end and ripped the tunic from his body.

     Now he stood before her in just his trousers, his fair, broad shoulders rising and falling as he looked upon the wound she had dealt him: a thin, diagonal cut across his chest. Her red hot blade had cauterised it at once; it was an angry purple welt that did not bleed, a permanent scar over his unblemished young skin. Slowly he raised his eyes to her, his hands balled into fists, his teeth clenched and bared as harsh breaths passed in and out between them. He roared, but the chanting was enough to drown it out; a buzz, a drone, with one woman wailing nonsense over the others, her gnarled hands outstretched as though invoking a curse over the room. Fierra, for all the pageantry around her, remained stoic.

 _‘Come to me,_ ’ she said in her otherworldly voice. ‘ _I will not miss a second time.’_

     Loam did not think twice. He scooped the sword from the floor and took off running, his muscular form taut and ready. In the centre of the room they clashed, sparks like a lightning-struck tree cascading in all directions. He dealt her the full force of his animal rage, taking the hilt in both hands and beating on the haft of her glaive like he was tolling a bell. She deflected each and every lunge, watching him as though from afar, seemingly fascinated by what he had become. At last, she broke their deadlock, swatting him away and turning on her tiptoes to open a space — but Loam was not ready to let her go. As she began her twirl, he released the sword into just one hand, letting the hilt slide from his loose fist until he clutched only the pommel, an added inch of reach which he prayed with all his being would be enough. The blade swung, displacing the air in its wake, and the two fighters were parted, Fierra completing her full revolution and stopping to face him at a distance of five paces.

     They stood staring at each other for some time.

     Loam’s eyes roved over her face and neck, seeking a cut, a scratch, hoping to the gods that he had succeeded. For better or worse, there would be no more fighting now. His strength — his power — was spent.

     And then it happened.

     With a blink of her long lashes, the light in Fierra’s eyes dispersed into embers, returning them to their luminous gold. Her flaming glaive was extinguished also, the charred feathers trailing soot and ash on the floor. She appraised him with a perfectly still face, and as she did so a single bead of blood welled up below her right eye. It emerged from a paper-thin cut and dropped, when it was heaviest, to her cheek: a Sheikah tear. Slowly, she raised her free hand to it, touching it with her fingertips, withdrawing to see it for herself. She looked upon him, still with her hand raised, and let her glaive fall from the other with a brief clatter of metal. Loam dropped the Ordon Sword also, his shoulders heaving. The chanting in the wings was silenced. The chamber held its breath.

     ‘We’re done,’ he panted. ‘It’s over. If you have any pride or honour at all, do as you said you would and release us, now _.’_

     She was unresponsive, gazing away into the middle distance.

 _‘NOW!’_ he screamed.

     Long moments passed, and still she held her wet fingers at eye height, as if coming to terms with what he had done. Finally, her waxwork stillness left her, and the hand was lowered; not to her side, but to the talisman at her throat. She smeared the blood over its face, and the glittering green of it turned all at once jet black. Then, without breaking their shared gaze, she unfastened the sash at her waist, letting it drop to her feet. The gown opened top-to-bottom. She parted it with her fingertips, shrugging it from her slender shoulders, sliding its smoothness down her arms, and leaving it to crumple in her wake.

     Now she stood before him wearing only the talisman and the fierce, daring smile of a woman who would not be denied. Loam stared. He did not stop staring.

     ‘Fool,’ she said. ‘You think _that_ was the final trial? You think anything so common as agility or reflexes are the essence of true Power?’

     He opened his mouth to answer, but though his lips moved his voice was nowhere to be heard. So his reply went unsaid, though he could not for the life of him remember what he had meant to say besides. He simply stared. Astonishment held him in place. It melted so fluidly into searing desire he did not even notice. He merely stood there, open-mouthed and heavy-lidded, devouring her with his eyes as she took one dainty step after the next in his direction, without shame and utterly in control. He had never been more her captive than he was in that moment.

     ‘Power,’ she said, as the chanting began again from someplace far away, ‘is neither strength, nor influence. You think you know it, think you’ve seen it, because you have rubbed shoulders with royalty. But titles and baubles and the admiration of peasants are but echoes — ghosts — of what it means to truly reign supreme.’

     Loam could hardly hear her over the ringing in his ears, the thrum of his heartbeat there. Every contour, every curve of her, was branded into his mind, which dissolved into bubbles, forgetting everything he ever knew or valued. At last, the distance between them closed. She placed her palms against his bare abdomen and slid them, with visible enjoyment, up the pattern of his ribs to his chest, where they remained.

     ‘Power is everything,’ she confided, looking up into his face. ‘Power is all. Your final test…your final trial…is not to prove it to me….but to _give it to me.’_

     Then she shoved him with all her might.

     Loam’s stomach overturned. Weightless, he fell backwards, the fog of his thoughts clearing for a moment in anticipation of the hard stone once more. But the impact never came. Instead, he landed in a pile of silk cushions beyond count, trimmed with gold and in shades of violet and fuchsia. He scurried onto his elbows and gazed up at her, uncomprehending, but well past caring. Satisfied, Fierra turned her palms to the ceiling, and a black-clad girl appeared at her side at once, placing a shallow basin upon them and departing like a rodent. Fierra knelt at Loam’s feet, revealing its contents — honey.

     She bowed over the dish and placed her pouting lips to the liquid’s surface. When she sat aright, it seemed as though they were coated in a dripping, golden lacquer. She placed the dish to one side and crept toward him on all fours, every inch the predator he knew she was, though he was hardly prey: he ached for the kiss that drew ever nearer, her face becoming his whole world in the firelight before she captured his mouth and filled it with sweetness.

     Loam had three distinct thoughts, then, simultaneously and independently.

     The first was of the pond in Ordon Village. He wondered if the seasons had changed in his absence, and whether the catfish were in good supply. The second was of Snowpeak, the fleeting glimpse he had enjoyed on the ride to rescue the Princess; how it would be such an adventure to go there, to discover and explore. And the third was a face — the face of the phantom warrior from his vision of the forest, who had happily killed and maimed his way to his prize, the great sword in the stone. It occurred to Loam, as he sucked desperately at Fierra's bottom lip, why that young man’s eyes had been so familiar, why he could have sworn he’d looked into them before. But the kiss was breaking now, their lips closing and parting, trailing sticky threads that stretched thin and vanished. Loam and the thief-queen regarded each other with dull, euphoric eyes, both of them sighing raggedly.

     ‘Give me everything,’ she commanded.

     And he did.

 

 

 


	21. First Homecoming

     The desert skies were grey that morning.

     At dawn, the path from the Arbiter’s Grounds to the main gate at the south end of the fortress was lined either side with Gerudo, a silent crowd assembled for a most unlikely parade. They were there to see with their own eyes the prisoners who, against all odds, had been granted not only permission to leave, but had been furnished with supplies for the journey home. From under the threshold stepped Requiem, his lithe body garbed in brown and red: tunic, trousers, boots, belt, gauntlets, a mail shirt and a scratchy cotton cape, which he wore like a scarf around his throat and shoulders. His ruby red eyes were squinted to slits, even in the dim light. He seemed disoriented by the wideness of the world before him, the freshness of the air. Outside of a dank cell, his hair was the white of new-fallen snow.

     Loam appeared at his side. He also was dressed for the road, and looked tall and solid, like a ranger of wild places — a rogue, a sage, a pirate. But where Requiem’s eyes were serious and alert, Loam’s were possessed of no light at all. He gazed into the middle distance, and appeared altogether absent from the occasion. They stood at the head of the stair, their backs to the black mouth of their prison, looking down over the great mass of scowls before them.  

     ‘They don’t look best pleased,’ observed Requiem.

     Loam shrugged a shoulder. ‘They’ll live,’ he muttered. ‘Come on.’

     Together they descended to the level of the host, a pair of pale faces in a sea of golden brown. It was true, thought Loam, as he stared into one glaring aspect after the next — the Gerudo were almost apoplectic with rage to witness such a spectacle as two prisoners literally walking out the front door. The thought ought to have cheered him, but he found he didn’t care a great deal either way. If someone were to break from the crowd and come at him with a dagger, he might not even have raised a hand to defend himself.

     He and Requiem passed under a stone awning to the fortress compound. Here they were spat at, foamy gobs of it splatting against the sand a few inches from their boots. A voice murmured something in the tribe’s own tongue; another yelled a curse in perfectly intelligible Hylian. Loam no longer looked at their faces, instead fixing his dull eyes on the furthermost point of the path before them. In his periphery, however, he could hardly help but notice that several of the gathered were nursing infants in their arms: small, soft things with strawberry blonde wisps of hair, wrapped up in swaddling cloths. Despite his vague bearing, he was taken still by how strange a thing it was to see killers and brigands play the part of mothers to small children.

     And not just any children — _Requiem’s daughters._

     Lips parting slightly with the realisation, he glanced furtively at his friend from the corner of his eye. For his part, the Sheikah was stoic — he, too, kept his focus on their destination, though the set of his jaw, perhaps, was a little harder than usual. Loam wondered if this was the first time he had ever seen them, the products of all those nightly excursions from his cell. What could it possibly have felt like?

     Merassa was among the mothers. She regarded Loam with a look of blackest loathing.

     At the gate, a wide and sandy lot opened up before the mouth of a channel which passed through a natural rock wall to the desert waste beyond. A delegation of Gerudo was waiting for them there. Loam spotted his old adversary, Noom, standing head and shoulders above the rest. Her teeth were bared, and he saw her fingers waggling by her sides, as though she desperately wished to have them wrapped around his throat. Others in attendance were older, and some were even elderly: stooped, wizened things with heavy faces and milky eyes that grew narrower with every step Loam took toward them. At twenty paces, the crowd shifted, and there stood Fierra, looking very like the cat who had caught the canary.

     The last time Loam had seen her face, it was glistening with sweat and grinned wickedly at him from behind loose strands of her hair, her red mouth gasping in ecstasy. In the days since, she had recovered her sense of decorum, but the smile remained, as wide as a smile can get without revealing any teeth. Hers was a perfectly satisfied expression, almost jubilant, as though she could not be happier for him in utter defiance of her subjects’ feelings on the matter. Loam returned her gaze with no expression of his own, so removed now from her charms as to almost see right through her.

     ‘Here they are!’ she declared, raising her hands in welcome. ‘Looking even more strapping now than when we first received them. Gaze upon these faces while you still can, girls. It is not every day a man departs our midst in one piece. To farewell _two_ with our thanks and best wishes is frankly without precedent!’

     Her companions did not share her enthusiasm.

     ‘Where's Zelda?’ said Loam, by way of greeting.

     Fierra looked coy. ‘Good morning to you, too, sunshine,’ she smirked. ‘It would appear there’s no pleasing anyone today.’

     All the same, she stepped aside and gestured to the passage in the rock. From out of the shadows stepped another old crone, bony and pinched and vaguely familiar to him from some other lifetime. Beside her stood the Princess Zelda, who blinked in the grey light of day, her sapphire eyes glassy and disoriented. Loam saw himself in them, saw the absence of vitality, the weariness with living. Her short hair was shaggy, like a farm boy’s, and both the natural fullness and fairness of her face had vanished. A shiny, pale pink scar marked her right cheek from just beside her ear to the line of her jaw. She wore a coarse cloak the colour of earth over a threadbare white shift.

     ‘Reunited at last,’ said Fierra, taking the girl under her arm. ‘Little princess, it grieves me to tell you that this gentleman has — ah! — _negotiated_ your departure from our midst. You will be returned now to your former prison, behind high castle walls in the land of the fat and simple. There you will be sentenced to an eternity of needlework and masquerade balls, a dreary and passive half-life from which there can be no escape. My one hope is that you may find it in your heart to forgive him.’

     Zelda seemed not to hear her at first. She tottered where she stood, as though unused to being upright. Then she looked into Loam’s face, and her own began to crumple.

     ‘Loam?’

     ‘I’m here, Princess,’ he said softly. ‘It’s me.’

     ‘Can’t cry,’ she said in little more than a whimper. ‘Not s’posed to. The warden brings the stick when I cry…’

     She made to turn away from him, but Loam doubled forward without thinking, gathering her into an embrace that lifted her from the ground. She stiffened for a moment, as though tensing for retribution. Only when he whispered into her ear did the floodgates open. She hugged him tightly around his neck, and drenched his shoulder with her tears.

     ‘Yes,’ said Fierra, with a slight roll of her eyes. ‘I know it’s hard.’

     Loam turned to appraise his captor, even stonier now that their bargain was complete. ‘We’ll be going now,’ he said.

     ‘But of course. Your mounts are just through there, shod and watered and ready to bear you home. Treat them with kindness, and tread carefully: the desert has begun to crawl again with all manner of nasties since the Prince packed up his toys and went home.’

     He nodded. ‘I’ll be needing my sword, then.’

     She grinned wider still, this time baring her white, straight teeth. ‘That old thing? Oh, I think not. No, I’m afraid I’ve grown rather attached to it in the months since you used it to make scrap metal of the Iron Knuckle. It’s an heirloom, correct? Your sword? Really, it would be unsporting of you not to give it up as recompense for the damage it wrought to ours. Is that not so?’

     He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to disagree, loudly, but stopped before he started. It was true, the sword was an heirloom — it had been forged by Colin’s own father, and had supposedly won a great many victories throughout the Twilight War — but the trembling girl in his arms was the only prize he valued, and to argue the point would only prolong their stay in the place where they had lost so much. Fierra raised her eyebrows, ready to receive his protests. Instead, he simply scowled.

     ‘Whatever,’ he grunted.

     She bowed her eyes, and the matter was settled. ‘It has been,’ she said simply, ‘an education.’

     Then the crowd shuffled to either side, and the way forward was open to them. Requiem drew level to Loam, and the two agreed to leave with neither a word to each other nor their host. They stepped into the passage and started to walk, Zelda’s sniffles echoing under the high rock ceiling.

     ‘Send the Prince my regards!’ Fierra called after them.

     In another life, Loam might have borne the insult with terrible humour. He might have felt a hot spike of indignation, or the quickened heartbeat that accompanied a challenge. He might also have remembered to glory in his freedom, to marvel in disbelief at all he had accomplished, all he was leaving behind. But Loam did not feel any these things. Even with the princess in his arms, even with the knowledge of the odds he had faced to secure her salvation, he felt neither gratitude nor relief, nor the giddy sense that he was about to get everything he had ever wanted out of his adventure from the beginning.

     ‘How are you feeling?’ asked Requiem in the silence of the cavern.

     ‘Fine,’ said Loam, stroking Zelda’s hair. ‘I feel absolutely fine.’

     He paused, before adding a correction.

     ‘I feel nothing at all.’

 

* * *

 

     They crossed the desert on horseback, bearing due east over rolling dunes. Their mounts were obedient, but temperamental; a pair of light brown mares with black muzzles and straw-coloured manes. Zelda sat between Loam’s knees, resting her head against his chest. They had hardly cleared the wooden barricades that choked the outskirts of the Gerudo encampment when she’d fallen fast asleep.

     ‘Do you know the way back?’ asked Requiem.

     ‘We’ll figure it out,’ said Loam. ‘I came here on foot from the great lake somewhere off in that direction. But it’s a steep climb. I’m told the army took another road, a little ways north of the drop. If we want to hold onto these horses, that’s the only way to go.’

     The other nodded. They steered their way around rock gullies and escarpments, their sights set on the eastern sky, where the clouds thinned and shafts of morning sun began to stream through, patterning the land with vivid gold blotches. Occasionally, Loam saw the sands shift and hump like a blanket, and tensed his knuckles against the reins in readiness. But whatever was under there burrowed away, and was never seen.

     By mid-morning, they had reached the mighty precipice that overlooked Lake Hylia. Requiem stifled a gasp, which he released in a long, shuddering sigh. He dismounted, and took a couple of faltering steps before dropping to one knee. Loam watched him with tired eyes, then turned his gaze to the water below, framed on all sides by the green of new life. Above the cascade that Loam recognised as the Zora River’s estuary, he examined the Great Bridge of Hylia. He was aware that it joined Faron Province to the centre-west of Hyrule Field, and seemed to suggest that the road they must take was elevated, passing through the rocky country somewhere to his distant left.

     ‘Not even in my dreams,’ said Requiem in a constricted voice. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and turned to look up at Loam. ‘It’s too beautiful for words.’

     ‘I know,’ said Loam. ‘Get a good look. This is your home now.’

     They followed the perimeter to where the sand became bare rock, and sure enough a path was there to welcome them.

 

* * *

 

     For a day and a night they journeyed, the rock gradually giving way to earth, and the earth to vegetation. On the morning of the second day, the grass sparkled with dew. A bent old cherry tree had begun to bud, and sparrows chatted contentedly in its branches. Loam examined the green and white of the blossoms-to-be, and guessed the day to be somewhere in the first week of spring. He shook his head. That meant he had spent an entire winter in captivity. The world had slumbered in his absence, and was waking just in time to greet him once more.

     ‘Hold up a sec,’ he said, tugging at the reins.

     They stopped partway along a ravine, where Loam left Zelda in the saddle. He made to climb up to a vantage point, but struggled to gain purchase on the slippery rock, and was just about to turn back in defeat when a rush of cool air unsettled his cloak. Requiem leapt over his head, and clambered effortlessly from one handhold to the next, arriving at the top in no time at all. Poised like a frog, he peered down at Loam and made him a small, modest smile.

     ‘What am I looking for?’ he called.

     Loam smiled also, a tentative thing, the muscles in his face unused to the action. ‘A castle,’ he replied. ‘Really big one. Just — the first castle you see.’

     Requiem considered a moment, his face aglow in the early light. ‘I can just see the tops of towers poking out of the mist,’ he explained. ‘Maybe half-a-day’s ride? It looks as though the land opens up to a grassy field before long.’

     ‘That’s great,’ said Loam. ‘Let’s do it.’

     They carried on. The princess did not say much as they travelled, and Loam had no desire to ask her about her experience as a hostage. Someone would eventually get the whole truth from her, but that someone would never be him. She looked at the world around her with her big, intelligent eyes, and seemed to process it with an understanding that was not altogether her own. Loam guessed at the extent to which the Gerudo had attempted to brainwash her, and what this would mean for her future.

     ‘We’re almost there, Princess,’ he murmured. She clung to his arm by way of reply.

     When the sun was at its highest point, the topography of the land levelled off and became smooth and even. They had arrived in the low country of the Lanayru province, where Loam had first emerged with the Resistance by his side, dashing off on a rescue mission that would so quickly turn to ruin. Castle Town was ahead of them, the great blue spires of the princess’ own home towering above all, its banners flapping in the wind.

     ‘We’ve been spotted,’ said Requiem.

     ‘How do you mean?’

     The Sheikah gestured with a nod. ‘There are watchmen patrolling the wall there. I caught the glint of a spyglass before they disappeared.’

     Loam thought better than to marvel at his friend’s supernatural eyesight. They were still a mile-and-a-half away. Without hurry, they cantered on toward their destination, but it wasn’t long before the western gate burst open, and a company of riders came thundering across the drawbridge. Even from a distance of three hundred yards, Loam could see the billowing crimson cloak in the lead, and slowed to a halt in preparation.

     ‘Look, Princess,’ he smiled sadly. ‘Your brother is coming.’

     Zelda sat up straighter and saw what Loam saw. At once, a sob tore through her, and she squirmed in the saddle. Loam made a placating sound and dismounted around her, lifting her off the horse and setting her down on the ground. She took off at a stumbling run immediately. Red jerked at the reins, causing his white stallion to rear up on its hind legs in protest, and without grace or care he tumbled from the saddle and sprinted to meet her. The moment they collided he fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around her and clutching her head to his shoulder. The riders caught him up and formed a semicircle a small distance away. Though they rejoiced over the scene, only Loam and Requiem could see the prince’s face, twisted into a rictus of agony. His mouth opened wide, and a great wail pierced the air, a scream of sorrow and relief that became another, and another, and another after that, punctuated by quivering gasps. For the first time, Loam felt something hard and dead begin to crumble within him, and he leaned against his horse to steady himself.

     Whisper was among the prince’s coterie. She looked upon the royal siblings with an expression of naked disbelief, a wide-eyed, tight-lipped stare. As if seeking an answer, she looked first to Loam, then to Requiem, whereupon her mouth fell open. The latter returned her gaze with interest, looking puzzled at first, then intrigued. Loam took all of this in, but only distantly. He was far away, and felt years older than he was, felt tired all the way down to what was left of his soul. When at last the prince was able to open his streaming eyes, he looked straight into Loam’s and made him a tremulous smile.

     ‘Thank you,’ was all he could say. ‘ _Thank you_.’

 

* * *

 

     The next two days passed by in a blur of ceremony and raised voices. Red decorated Loam with every title and honour he could think of — Peer of the Realm, Royal Defender, First Knight of the Order of the Square Table — all of which came with their own medals and dress and ornamental sceptres, and all of which occasioned a feast of some kind. Castle Town was overtaken by a state of continuous celebration, the square and surrounding roads crowded with revellers, toasting the return of the princess and dancing into the early hours. The members of the Resistance were given pride of place at every banqueting table, and were outfitted in finery beyond their wildest imaginations. Loam smiled to see Cojiro fussing over the rather ungainly codpiece he’d been given to wear, and Grist looking uncomfortable in a huge purple doublet that still could not contain his bulk. Lady Rahala wore an elegant lilac gown with ethereal elements and smiled at Loam constantly, as though needing to reassure herself that he really had returned. They all deferred to him with joy and awe, their hero and friend, surrounding him with affection at every opportunity. Even Maggie had to brush a tear from her eye, though she passed it off as an allergic reaction to the many stuffed-shirt aristocrats she was forced to rub shoulders with.

 _'Another!'_ bellowed Grist over the clamour. He held a flagon the size of a small cask over his head, the whiskers around his lips dripping white foam, while a gaggle of ladies gossiped and exclaimed behind their hand fans.

     The castle courtyard was radiant under the clear night sky, illumined by a bonfire and by paper lanterns crisscrossed above the party-goers. A raised stage had been assembled around the fountain sculpture of the goddesses, upon which musicians piped and strummed and kept a merry tempo for the hundreds below who waltzed and jigged and twirled about, breathless with laughter and constantly cheering. Tables groaned beneath the weight of platter after platter of the finest food, barrels of the choicest wine. Around the hedgerows and out of the shadows, actual fairies flitted up and down, their clear insectile wings barely visible over the luminescent white-pink glow that was their bodies. Colour and flavour and music ran together like a fairground hallucination, enough that Loam had to fight to extricate himself from the crowd and disappear to where it was cool and dark — the privet maze.

     After barely a dozen left turns, the sound of the festivities seemed farther away than he would have guessed. The evergreens were thick and tightly cropped, and in their midst he took long breaths, letting the fresh air fill his nostrils, pure and cold and priceless to him now. When he was sure he would not be found, he came to rest on a stone bench, hunching over with his elbows on his knees and trying to think of anything but the recent past. 

     'I've never cared for parties, either,' said a clipped woman's voice from overhead.

     Loam's head snapped up, his heart skipping a beat. It was Whisper, lying flat on her stomach without leaving so much as a depression in the greenery, her womanly form ink black in the distant firelight. He relaxed.

     'Just needed some space,' he explained with a weary half-smile.

     Whisper inclined her head. 'I imagine so.' 

     Her silhouette seemed to melt into the leaves, only to reappear as flesh-and-blood at just arm's length from him. She was not wearing her face mask, and it struck Loam how perfectly beautiful she was, however cold or inscrutable. Her red eyes glittered in the darkness, reminding him of a small cell in a deep and evil place, and he looked away.

     'I overheard you earlier,' she admitted, 'when you were describing your ordeal.'

     Loam gave a humourless chuckle. 'Oh? Was this the first time, or one of the five hundred other times since?'

     'In the throne room,' she replied seriously. 'With the queen and —' (here her eyes flashed) '—and the prince. You talked at length about the trials. But I suspected even then that you had withheld an important detail...perhaps the most important. Am I correct to think so?'

     He did not look her in the eye. The set of his chin became harder, and he fought to keep the bitterness from his voice for a long while before he dared to speak.

     'Did Requiem tell you?'

     'No,' she said. 'But he told me what happened to him, and I see in your eyes what I see in his. You've both been taken from — and what you've lost, there is no getting back.'

     'Well,' said Loam without expression. 'That's thieves for you.'

     Whisper sat on the bench beside him. 'Have you given thought to what she meant to achieve by it?' she asked. Her tone was mostly unreadable, but softer than it had been.

     'No, I haven't,' said Loam. He put his face in his hands and rubbed circles around his eyes. 'I don't want to think about it, I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to _know_. I don't care. I did what I had to do to get us out of there, OK? Nothing more, nothing less. And maybe you think it's important, and maybe Requiem does as well, but if you could both do me a favour and never bring it up in my presence, or anyone's, _ever_ , I'd be really grateful.'

     ' _Loam?'_ came Cojiro's voice from somewhere in the maze. _'I say, Loam! Are you in he_ _re, dear boy? Only the Goron emissary's just arrived, and he's simply champing at the bit to meet the hero of the hour...'_

     The pair of them turned their heads. Whisper stood to her feet.

     'I was wrong about you,' she said unexpectedly. The words seemed forced from her mouth.

     He stared at her in mild surprise. 'In what way?'

     The Sheikah took three backward steps into shadow, vanishing completely, but for her eyes.

     'In every way.'

     No sooner had she gone than Cojiro appeared around the bend, looking startled and delighted all at once. 'There you are, you slippery fellow!' he laughed. 'What on earth are you doing tucked away in a dark cranny with no-one to gush over you?'

     The older man practically danced Loam's way, bandy-legged in his ill-fitting breeches. Loam forced a smile.

     'Hi, Cojiro. Having fun?' 

     'Am I what! Who knew the Queen herself could cut a rug like that, eh?' He plopped down beside Loam, throwing an arm over his shoulders. 'But what's a party without its guest of honour, I ask you! How about it, chum? Shall we up and away?'

     'In a little while, maybe,' said Loam. He turned his face to the stars. 'It's just...nice here, away from all the fuss, I suppose. I'm not quite ready to get back into it. Is that all right?'

     Cojiro's broad grin faded, replaced by a look of understanding. He nodded.

     'Of course,' he said quietly, and likewise looked up at the glimmering multitude, the canvas of beauty high above them. 'You know, now that you mention it, I actually rather sympathise. A little pomp and circumstance goes a long way. And it is a beautiful night, after all.'

     Loam closed his eyes. 'It really is.'

* * *

    

     On the morning of the third day, when the music had stopped and the crowds had returned to their homes to take rest, Loam was left on his own with Red. They walked, side-by-side, through the quiet corridors of the castle’s east wing, the grand windows streaming sunlight onto furniture which, until Loam’s return, had been covered in black shrouds. The kingdom had spent the entire winter mourning the loss of the princess, and it showed in Red’s face.

     ‘It was pain beyond endurance,’ he reflected.

     Loam examined him in the bright light, and believed it. He looked drawn, gaunt, his blue eyes set deep in the centre of grey circles. It was obvious he had lost a considerable amount of weight in the time they had spent apart. Whatever Loam had suffered in the bowels of the Arbiter’s Grounds, he at least possessed knowledge of Zelda’s fate, and could even influence it, albeit at the cost of great hardship. Red had had nothing at all — only guilt and despair and the absence of anything like closure, tormenting him night and day. Loam clasped his shoulder reassuringly.

     ‘It’s over now,’ he said.

     Red patted his hand and tried to smile. ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘But nothing’s the same, is it? Nothing will ever be the same.’

     He approached one of the windows, and looked out over the courtyard. Loam joined him, following his gaze to the apple tree on the far side, where two dark figures stood, deep in conversation. It was Requiem, standing opposite Whisper, though there wasn’t much of a gap between them. Loam was struck by how alike they truly were — not just in the eyes, but in the oddly feline grace of their bodies. He wondered what the last couple of days had been like for his fellow prisoner and friend.

     ‘They are very close already,’ Red observed. ‘Obviously, she has told him what he is, and what that means going forward. It’s only a matter of time before they set off together for the desert again, to search beyond our borders for his family, if they yet live.’ He regarded Loam with tired eyes. ‘You were right to bring him here. Fate may even have willed it. My father would have given anything to see the Sheikah restored, and now, thanks to you, they will be.’

     Loam nodded, but looked upon Red with sadness in his eyes all the same.

     ‘Red,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I’m sorry.’

     The prince looked at him sharply. ‘For what? For _those two?_ But you mustn't be! I forbid it, in fact. Whisper and I, we…well, we’re nothing more than ruler and subject now, I can say that with complete confidence. When she was returned to me, I was too distraught to have her punished for insubordination. I simply ceased to speak to her, and went mad with grief on my own.’ He shook his head, as if trying to shoo away an irksome fly. ‘It was a mistake, what I started with her. Nothing more than the reckless actions of a little boy. No, my friend, this is the best possible outcome for everyone — for her and for me and for our kingdom. I mean this.’

     He looked out the window a second time, and though his voice was firm he seemed somehow even more frail than before.

     ‘I mean this,’ he repeated to himself. 'My one regret is that we should part on such terms, where once we were the closest of friends. What happened to Zelda was not her fault, but she will always believe it so.'

     After a moment, he faced Loam fully and grasped his hand, looking eager in a way that was not altogether sincere. ‘Well, then, hero! What’s next? Can I persuade you remain with us a little longer?’

     Loam tried to smile, but could barely look his friend in the eye. ‘Red, I — I can’t. I have to get back to my family. What must they be thinking, all these months later?’

     The other winced. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Yes. About that. Loam...there isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’ll just come right out with it. When you did not reappear, we feared the worst. I wanted to put it off, but my counsellors were firm: your people had to be told where you had gone, and why you would not be coming back.’

     As Red was speaking, he seemed to retreat to someplace far away, his words echoing strangely, as though from the bottom of a well. Loam’s knees became weak.

     ‘So, they…they think I’m dead? That’s what they believe?’

     ‘Yes,’ said Red, his eyes downturned. ‘A courier came on the heels of the men I sent to rid the Ordon Province of its monstrous host, bearing a letter for your mayor signed by my own hand. That was nine weeks ago.’ He attempted a bracing smile. ‘What a shock they’re in for, eh?’

     Loam felt ill. He gripped the window sill and took a succession of deep breaths, imagining as he did the faces of everyone he loved there, inconsolable with grief at a funeral with no body to bury.

     ‘It’s all right,’ said Red, steadying him. ‘You’re all right.’

     ‘I have to go,’ said Loam at length. ‘I…I have to go.’

     ‘Yes,’ said the prince. ‘Yes, of course you do. Come.’

    


	22. Ordinary

     Castle Town, like all of Hyrule, is a beautiful and mysterious place. When you go there, it is not uncommon to think, “What’s over that wall?” or “Where does this lead?” or even, “Why do those cats always meet by that tree?” It seems there is always the suggestion of rich history or magic just around the corner. Townsfolk go their own way from the crack of dawn till the dead of night, and while it’s really none of your business, you cannot shake the lingering sense that they are all somehow important to the journey you are on — that they each hold the key to mysteries and riddles beyond number, or possess an item or even a weapon of unique significance to you. Sometimes there are locked doors, unmarked and out of the way. You can never go inside them. You can never know their secrets.

     It is agony.

     Even in the misty pre-dawn, there is activity. On his way through the square, Loam spotted a brown terrier sitting on its hind legs, watching the world with wise eyes, while down the east road a band of five small boys dressed in identical shirts and bandanas hurried away in a straight line. In spite of everything, he felt the first tendrils of curiosity tickle at his consciousness from someplace dormant and remote. Even so, he pressed on.

     The prince and princess accompanied him. The early hour mattered little to either of them, though the princess stifled small yawns behind her hand. It had been her hope to dress her hero in velvet and silk and fur trim, but Loam had declined with a smile. Instead, he donned a plain green tunic and brown trousers, and was furnished with sword and shield, quiver and arrows, all of it inlaid with the silver and gold of kings. The day promised sunshine, and he felt ready. Ready and anxious.

     ‘When will you come back, Loam?’ wondered the girl.

     He looked apologetic. ‘I don’t know, Princess,’ he admitted. ‘Soon, I hope.’

     ‘I should think so,’ said Red lightly. ‘It’s my coronation in the summer. And as you now occupy half the official positions in the land, I’m afraid there’s really no getting out of it.’

     Loam made him a wry half-grin. ‘Well, that’s settled, then.’

     ‘Yes, indeed. Your whole family — your whole village! — everyone you love will be welcome at my table.’

     They proceeded along the south road to the gate, where two patrolmen stood either side, their chins thrust forward and their hands raised in a salute. Loam thought he recognised them from the beginning of his journey, and made them a breezy salute of his own.

     ‘At ease,’ he murmured in passing.

     Outside the city walls, the forecourt and surrounding gardens signalled the end of civilisation and the beginning of what was rugged and untamed. The trio descended the stone steps to where more friends stood, smiling expectantly. They were gathered around Apona, whose chestnut coat was glossy and kempt, her mane braided in the style of the royal cavalry. She gave an excited whinny the moment she laid eyes on her rider, and struggled to keep still. Loam felt a swoop of affection in his heart to see not only the Resistance, but Requiem also, approach him with warmth and gratitude in their eyes.

     ‘’Morning!’ hollered Grist, waving both hands. ‘What kept you lot, then?’

     The prince spared him a look of mock disapproval as Loam stood before each of them in turn, clasping hands and embracing one after the other. He touched his cheek to Lady Rahala’s, who took him by the arm and led him to his mount. Apona nuzzled his ear, causing a surprised laugh to escape his and the others’ lips.

     ‘She’s never looked so good,’ beamed Loam, stroking her neck and face.

     ‘I hope your family will understand,’ said the Zora, looking contrite. ‘When you disappeared, it did not occur to us to return her.’

     He gave her hand a small squeeze, a gesture of assurance. ‘They will understand. But thank you.’

     The sun’s first rays peeked over Death Mountain, bathing the scene in pure gold. Loam regarded his band of companions, and felt for a moment like he could never look at them for long enough. It must have showed in his eyes, because suddenly Cojiro was reaching for a polkadot handkerchief, and Zelda had buried her face in Red’s hip.

     ‘I guess this is goodbye?’

     Requiem stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. His face was steady and serious, as it always was, but the esteem in which he held his friend was undeniable. ‘I will always be indebted to you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘But for you, I would be a dead man, and this new destiny of mine would never come to fulfilment. For as long as I am alive, I will always be your servant and your friend.’

     Loam bowed his head in gratitude. ‘Will I see you again?’ he asked uncertainly.

     ‘I guarantee it,’ said the Sheikah. ‘And my father and my brothers also, if the gods are kind. Goodbye, Loam.’

     ‘’Bye, Requiem.’

     After another round of handshakes, hugs and promises, Loam led Apona onto the grass with only Red by his side. The prince looked characteristically tired.

     ‘What can I say that has not already been said?’ he smiled with open arms. ‘I, too, am in your debt until the end of my days. Because of your courage, wisdom and power, you were able to save my sister from bandits…though whether your example is enough to save me from myself, I don’t yet know.’

     They clasped hands. Loam gave him a dark look.

     ‘What does that mean?’ he asked. ‘You’re not thinking of going after them again? Right? Not…taking revenge, or anything crazy like that?’

     Red gazed away into the middle distance, and appeared, up close, to be waging some fierce inner battle. His grip had turned reflexively firm. ‘Oughtn’t I?’ he wondered through pursed lips after a minute. ‘You tell me: doesn’t that viper deserve to suffer as I did — as _you_ did? I could make it happen. We’re prepared now. We could take the Arbiter’s Grounds in a single night, and hold her to account for all the pain she wrought upon us…’

     Loam shook his head. ‘Red,’ he said gravely. ‘It’s not worth it. Please don’t go back there. Look, I haven’t asked for much under the circumstances, but I’ll get on my knees and beg if I have to: don’t ever cross paths with that woman again. Wear the defeat. Own it. Let it make you a great king, more than war ever could. Please? Can you promise me that?’

     For a long moment, the prince considered his words. Afterward, he appeared to emerge from something like a trance, blinking his eyes as if to shake it off. The handshake slackened, and he sighed.

     ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘Of course, you’re right, I — I’m forgetting myself. Loam, you have my word. As long as they keep themselves to themselves, I will not take up arms against the Gerudo again. There are bigger things at stake than my pride, after all.’

     They embraced a final time. Loam released the breath he was holding as discreetly as possible. ‘Thanks, Red.’

     ‘Thank _you,’_ said the prince, retreating on his heels. ‘Farewell, brother. Come back to us soon.’

     The heroes of the Resistance looked on fondly as Loam clambered into the saddle and steered Apona in a wide circle. His smile was brave, but apprehensive; the thought of facing his family without them by his side was an oddly fearful one. If the villagers truly believed him dead, it might have been nice to fall back on the support of those who knew otherwise. But they were shrinking now, as he trotted toward the south pass: Zelda in her brother’s arms, Maggie sitting astride Grist’s strong shoulders, Lady Rahala stroking Cojiro’s back as he dried his eyes, and all of them waving, waving.

     The last thing Loam saw was Requiem’s face, set to the west and lost in contemplation.

 

* * *

 

     By day he rode without hurry, wending his way through the peaks and troughs of the upper Faron Province, stopping every so often to examine a cave he glimpsed out of the corner of one eye, or to exchange pleasantries with the postman, who passed up and down the countryside with an odd sort of goose-stepping sprint. The day was pleasant and mild, and the earth smelled like moisture and new life. He took lunch on a hill that looked east into Eldin, where the ground became hard and red on the road to the volcano. A wagon ambled out from the gorge at the mouth of Kakariko Village, barely a speck in the distance.

     By sundown he had reached the limits of the forest, at the southernmost end of Hyrule Field. The willows and the cedars swayed in the breeze, untroubled by the comings and goings of anyone. A well-trodden dirt path snaked its way into the shadows, but Loam was unwilling to press on by night, and Apona was weary besides. So they lay beneath the stars, and in the silence Loam studied his feelings about the past and the future, and found to his disappointment that both scared him in their own way. The memory of the dungeon in the desert called to him accusingly, and the faces of the people he loved heard it and turned from him, ashamed. And ghosts with clawed hands and girls with bleeding mouths and the woman, _the woman,_ with her reaching arms and fiery hair swarmed over him in a torrent, and when Loam cried out and sat bolt upright he discovered that morning was upon him again.

     It was time to come home.

     The tunnel pass was dank, but still. A Deku Baba sapling stirred in a patch of ivy, but its blind head was toothless and it did not lunge at him. Loam clutched his oil lantern tightly, his sword flat and ready in his lap, but there was nothing to fear here, and soon shafts of dusty sunlight were there to welcome him into the forest glade, and the final leg of his journey.

     At a quarter mile from the village gate, he dismounted and led Apona by the mouth. His heart was pounding now. He wondered who he would see first, what their reaction would be, whether they would even accept at first glance that he truly was the son they had lost. His palms felt clammy under the leather banding of his gauntlets. Time slowed down and became unreal.

     In a grove by Ordon Spring, around a mound of earth where daisies grew in the dappled light, he encountered a soldier.

     This soldier was not like others in the Queen’s service. He was short, as high up as Loam’s waist, and he wore not the breastplate and mail shirt of the royal guard, but a wooden helmet like an overturned bowl, and carried a stubby wooden dirk at arm’s length, fearless and vigilant. He marched in circles, his little legs stretching in a brave imitation of a rank-and-file watchman, and at the sight of him Loam’s lungs seemed to depress, becoming tight and painful within him. He placed an open palm against a tree to keep from falling.

     ‘Wren?’ he whispered.

     The soldier stopped mid-march, his back to Loam. Slowly, warily, he turned to face him. The moment their eyes met, he reached up to slide the helmet from his head, letting it drop and roll away as he stared back with blank eyes, his small mouth parted, his blonde hair askew.

     ‘Wren, it’s…it’s me. It’s Loam.’

     Still, there was no response.

     ‘I’m alive. I’m back, Wren.’ He gulped. ‘Please say something, buddy, I’m, um…I’m not doing too great here...’

     Without a word, without a change in countenance, the boy threw down his dirk and took off at a sprint around the bend.

     ‘Oh,’ said Loam, his voice breaking on the finish. He slid partway down the tree trunk and struggled to keep from sobbing. ‘That’s too bad.’

     But then, moments later, Wren returned. He was dragging Raya by the hand. At first she looked bewildered, and seemed on the verge of protesting. The moment she caught sight of Loam, however, she gave a scream of astonishment and staggered to her knees, as pale as china and gaping as though she had been struck. Loam put a hand over his mouth at the sight of her: beautiful but broken, in the spring of youth but wearied by deep grief. Wren stood in the daisy patch between them both, and for a long moment nobody knew what to say. At last, the boy seemed to make up his mind, and hurried to join his sister’s hand to his lost hero’s. Their fingers barely touched before she fell upon Loam’s neck and dissolved into tears.

     ‘ _I didn’t — say — goodbye,_ ’ she gasped. ‘I didn’t say goodbye, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. _I’m so sorry…’_

     Something like a boulder shifted in Loam’s heart. The violence, the violations, and the endless dark of the Arbiter’s Grounds held fast against the swirl of emotions for scarcely a moment, before being swept away by the warmth of her body, the desperation of her embrace, the power of her tears. He clutched her tightly to himself and murmured into her hair words of grace, and Wren hugged them both around their knees, and that is how they stayed for a very long time.

 

* * *

 

     It was difficult to say what happened next, in the patch of heaven that was Ordon Village.

     Loam remembered the moments that followed in a series of still images. Walking side-by-side with Raya through the gate in broad daylight, Wren propped up on the crook of his elbow. The shouts and oaths that became a rallying cry for the whole village to pour into the thoroughfare. The faces, which at first reflected only dull disbelief, one after the other becoming transfigured into masks of joy. His mother, supported either side by the grocer and the mayor, struggling from their grasp only to collapse at his feet, too overcome to put words to the miracle. Bartl and the boys dancing and cheering, the shiny scar across Bartl’s face and neck a reminder that the village had faced grave danger, and had emerged victorious.

     And Colin, on the arm of his son Daro, emerging from his house and limping across the brook to take Loam in his own arms.

     ‘How is this possible?’ the old man rasped, swiping at his eyes with the heel of his free hand.

     Loam shrugged, and made him a watery grin of his own. ‘It’s kind of a long story,’ he managed, and they embraced again, and again.

     There was a feast in the evening. Compared to the efforts of the royal family it was modest, but to Loam it was greater than anything even a god could produce. Trestle tables were laden with his favourite homemade delicacies, and the music of his countrymen’s laughter was the only thing he ever wanted to dance to. He danced with Raya, their bodies silhouetted in the firelight.

     They kissed with closed mouths on the roof of the grocer’s mart, under a full moon as big as the sky.

     Late at night he walked his mother to their home. When they arrived at the doorstep, he spied Ilia across the way, standing on her own in the moonlight. She seemed expectant, lingering in place like the fragrance of forest berries in the cool night air.

     ‘You go inside,’ he said, squeezing his mother’s hand. ‘I’ll be right with.’

     When they had parted, he walked to where the old lady was, and made her a polite bow.

     ‘Here you are, then,’ she noted.

     He examined himself modestly with his palms raised. ‘Here I am. Is Apona okay?’

     ‘She has had a long journey,’ said Ilia. ‘Not as long as some, I suppose, but a journey all the same. I’m happy she could be of service to you.’

     Loam was smiling. She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

     ‘And what, pray tell, is that look for, young man?’ she asked.

     ‘Well, it’s just…something you said, way back at the start. I’d forgotten, but I’m reminded now. You said, “ _A hero never truly returns from his quest._ ”’ He raised his hands again and looked from side-to-side, still smiling. ‘And yet, I’m back! Guess that puts paid to the whole hero thing, huh?’

     Ilia’s mouth twitched. At first she seemed droll, but the expression faded, slipping away and leaving her looking serious, even sad. Unexpectedly, she raised a withered hand to his face, caressing the side of his cheek and peering deep into his eyes. He chuckled nervously, feeling all of a sudden discomfited.

     ‘But you’re _not_ here,’ she said quietly, ‘are you? Not completely. You’ve tasted, and you’ve seen, but only enough to stir within you a deeper longing than you can hope to overcome.’ She sighed through her nose. ‘ _Hyrule._ What’s really out there, in the mountains and the valleys and over the streams? You will never stop wondering. Hero, you’ve come home, and that’s plenty enough cause to rejoice and make merry. But _he_ came home against all odds, and where is he now?’

     Her face fell, and she withdrew her hand. It seemed, for the moment, that she had quite forgotten about Loam, turning slowly and wandering away on old legs, still murmuring, alone and confused.

     ‘ _Where is he now?’_

     Loam watched her go. He rubbed the back of his neck, unable to make sense of what he had just experienced. Blinking away the strangeness, he turned to follow his mother inside. But the north gate caught his eye from afar, and he stopped in his tracks, regarding it with wary eyes.

     Somewhere out there was a hidden grotto containing a treasure chest that no-one had touched for millennia. Somewhere out there was a trick wall that would blow apart to uncover a fountain whose waters possessed mystical properties. Somewhere was a graveyard, ancient and neglected, with a headstone in the corner upon which was inscribed the secrets of a long forgotten race. There were caves over hard-to-reach cliff tops, and caves behind thundering curtains of water. In towns and villages and travelling communities, there were shady characters and zany characters and pedlars of strange potions and wind-up contraptions eager to meet him, to confide in him, to befriend or perhaps even challenge him. There was an endless sky, higher and wider than he could possibly comprehend. It was beautiful.

     It was waiting.

     The yearning feeling shifted painfully for only a moment before it settled. He touched a hand to his heart and caught his breath, unsure of what had come over him. He was being ridiculous, he decided as he began to walk — of _course_ he was. He had everything he needed right here: the love of family, the comforts of home, the certainties of peace and quiet. Ilia could say what she liked, but after an ordeal such as his, he would have to be mad to ever set foot outside his village again! Pushing through the picket gate ahead of the vegetable patch, he settled his doubts with a firm nod. Adventure was overrated, and relative besides. Whatever Hyrule’s charms, whatever her secrets, he was not going to budge. He wasn’t going anywhere.

 

     For now.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	23. Epilogue

     Looking down upon the desert from the highest tower of her citadel of sex and death, the Queen was content.

     Her captives were but dots now, having long crossed the gorge and passed by the Mesa on horseback, ambling away without haste in the direction of the land of the gods — the shadow, the kitten and the True Man. She would watch them until they disappeared entirely, into the shimmering green forever of another world.

     ‘The sisters are not happy,’ said Goora, her vizier.

     The old crone was scowling, as crones are wont to do. Her puckered ruin of a face looked disapprovingly upon her leader, standing a little ways behind her with folded arms as if to indicate she was of quite the same opinion as the rest.

     ‘So tell them a joke,’ said the Queen dismissively, still observing the vista.

     ‘There are whispers of mutiny in the ranks!’

     ‘Let the guilty form a line at my door. I will persuade them to reconsider.’ Her smile grew wider; indeed, she had hardly stopped since first light.

     Goora looked on, and scowled some more. Time passed.

     ‘Do you think he will retaliate?’ she wondered.

     ‘The Prince? He may do as he likes — it matters not. By the time he regains the stomach for battle, we shall be long gone. Back west to the dead places until the time is right.’

     ‘ _The time?’_ echoed Goora, coldly surprised. ‘We return to our ancestral home after a thousand years in exile, and you would have us leave again until _the time_ is right? What possible reason—?’

     But her protests were cut short by a single finger, raised in warning. When all was silent again, the Queen’s hand drifted down to her bare stomach, flat and smooth and golden brown. She caressed around the navel with her elegant fingertips, and pondered in her heart the true meaning of _the time._ The older woman came alongside her, and cast a beady eye from her belly to the travellers on the horizon.

     ‘And what fancy is this?’ she murmured. ‘So the boy has spirit, and you bed him for his trouble — what of it? You think there’s something to this spirit, like the measure of a man has any bearing on his children? You think he possesses some sort of power, that you might pass it along to your daughter, is that it?’

     The Queen was calm. ‘Of course not. That would be absurd.’

     She turned to face the elder, and her golden eyes shone bright and fierce with triumph.

     ‘My _son_ , on the other hand, will profit greatly from such power.’

     At first the old woman was speechless, her thin mouth pulling tight like a star. She regarded the other with wide eyes, before an ugly look twisted her ugly face into the deepest reach of human ugliness.

     ‘Foolish girl,’ she decided with a hiss. ‘Blind girl! Was not such a thing the wish of your own mother — and her mother, and hers? And look what became of them! We are a cursed race, child — one male born every hundred years, enough to last a generation and no longer — and since the Demon King has never died, the curse is made complete, and we will _never again_ see a man who bears the name Gerudo!’

     ‘Thank you for that detailed history of my own people,’ said the Queen dryly.

     ‘The curse—’

     ‘Curses,’ she said loudly, ‘like rules, are made to be broken. All it takes is the right ingredients…the right timing…the right _people._ ’ She returned her gaze to the east, no longer able to see the one whom she had tested and freed — the one who called himself Loam, who thought only of his friends; who, with a honeyed kiss, had doomed his entire race to fall.

     ‘Do you truly believe you have done the impossible?’ demanded Goora.

     ‘Certainly I do.’

     ‘Huh!’ She crossed her arms and resumed her scowling. ‘Well, you’ll look a perfect fool when that thing appears with a space between its legs, that’s all I’m going to say.’

     ‘And your old bones will look perfectly ordinary, lying face down at the feet of your King. Now, be silent.’

     Still with her back to her adviser, the Queen produced a sword from her side. She turned it in her hands, noting the fine craftsmanship, but also the plainness of the design. She studied the brown banding around the hilt before arriving at the pommel, which was embellished with what appeared to be the symbol of a certain type of goat’s horn. The Queen, whose name was Fierra, meaning “fire” in the tongue of thieves, found this improbably delightful — for this would be the sword with which her King would command his armies and put to death his enemies, at least until he could possess the Blade of Evil’s Bane and so take his place as a god who walked the earth — and a laugh, short and musical, escaped her lips.

     ‘What’s funny?’ wondered the crone.

     Fierra considered a moment, sheathing the blade as the sky before her lightened, a warm north-westerly causing her ponytail to dance like a silk banner. ‘The wind,’ she decided.

     ‘What of it?’

     Then she tilted her head back and welcomed the day with open arms, the clouds parting in the east to flood the desert with blazing sun.

     ‘It is blowing.’

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

  ** _The End_**

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has supported this work, whether by a kind word, a spot of kudos, a bookmark, or just a good old fashioned page view. This particular project I began two years ago. I've mentioned elsewhere that I'm not particularly good at finishing things, so it's kind of a big deal for me to have done exactly that.
> 
> While it mightn't seem immediately obvious, this story is an attempt to bridge the gap between _Twilight Princess_ and _The Wind Waker._ At the beginning of WW, the story goes that, " _the great evil that all thought had been forever sealed away by the hero once again crept forth from the depths of the earth, eager to resume its dark designs._ "
> 
> " _The people believed that the Hero of Time would again come to save them. But the Hero did not appear. Faced by an onslaught of evil, the people could do nothing but appeal to the gods._ " 
> 
> Well, why didn't the Hero appear? Since the beginning, it has been the destiny of the world that whenever the Demon King rises to lay claim to Hyrule, the Hero _will_ rise to thwart him. So why was Ganon allowed to conquer the world on this occasion?
> 
> My story suggests that a Hero in green did indeed rise...but was killed, against the expectations of gods and men, by another man of the desert. A young man in black; a warrior - Fierra and Loam's own bastard son. In attempting to seize the Sacred Realm on his mother's orders, this young man inadvertently removed the only obstacle to Ganon's triumph, and was himself killed moments later (as can be seen in Loam's vision in Chapter 18).
> 
> So the only option for the gods was to drown Hyrule, and seal it beneath the waves forever. As much is revealed to the boy from Outset Island by none other than Daphnes Nohansen Hyrule...otherwise known as the King of Red Lions, and Red's own son by my reckoning. 
> 
> There are allusions to all this in Chapter 13, where Red confides in Loam about his dreams of the ocean. Actually, there are a number of references to the wider Zelda pantheon throughout this story - I had a tonne of fun doing that! Mostly, this story exists as a kind of love letter to _The Legend of Zelda_ and the sense of discovery Hyrule has inspired in me since I first played _Ocarina._ If you love Zelda, I hope you've loved this, too.
> 
> Final special mention goes to the artist, VanEvil, whose fan rendering of the Sage Nabooru is actually the exact representation of how I imagined Fierra from the beginning: http://orig15.deviantart.net/c697/f/2015/144/5/d/nabooru_the_sage_by_vanevil-d8ucf8t.png
> 
> And, above all, a huge thanks to reader cinnappo, whose rich feedback and very raw responses were a constant encouragement. I hope to be able to entertain you again someday! If you have any further questions, leave them in the comments and we'll work it out.
> 
> Thanks, everybody. Looking very forward to Zelda for Wii U (if it ever arrives, amirite?)
> 
> Best,  
> Juke.


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